


It Feels Like Winter Follows You Around

by restlessqueen



Series: All At Once Was All About You [2]
Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Companion Piece, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Sharing a Bed, TW: Panic Attacks, TW: drug use, minor bg couples, season 1 rewrite, tw: depression, tw: mentioned abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-07-29 03:02:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20075050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlessqueen/pseuds/restlessqueen
Summary: “So... soulmates,” Clark is unabashedly unhappy about this. It's no secret that Gwen wakes up with Andrew every morning, not him. There's a sort of soft hum that goes through the church, waiting for Gordie's answer. Like he knows any more than the rest of them. Like it all hinges on what he says next.“Fuck, fine, I don't know, maybe. Sure, it could be soulmates,” Gordie gives in. And it's like there's some sort of magnet drawing his gaze upward, Harry helpless to resist, as he meets Allie's eyes across the church. She looks scared, more than anything.Harry feels his lips twist up in that smile he doesn't mean, that one he learned so long ago he doesn't think about anymore. It's not like things are different than they were three days ago. He's still just a secret she's afraid someone will figure out.Soulmates.The word lingers in the air. Does it even matter if it's true? In the morning, he'll wake up with Allie's hair spread out on his pillow, and he'll be as alone as he was yesterday. That's the truth that Harry knows.- - -a companion fic to Someday I'll Need Your Spine to Hide Behind





	1. You Know I'm Always at Your Shoulder

When Harry wakes up the day after the end of the world as he's always known it, the first thing his eyes focus on is a lock of long blonde hair splayed out on the pillow next to him, and his stomach sinks straight to his knees. Harry's spent his whole life feeling like he's been stumbling from one fuck up to the next, but _this_ type isn't like him. Or it never has been before, he told himself it never would be.

And as he eases up on one elbow, angling his body so he can see her face, he thinks- he didn't, he didn't, he wouldn't, and then....

“Allie?” He _didn't_ . And it's not just him hoping anymore. Harry knows, suddenly, deep in his bones, that this isn't at all what it seems like. Last night finally catches up to him. Yeah, he'd been drinking. And yeah, he and Kelly might be pissed at each other. But Harry went home alone last night. And if he _had_ taken someone with him, it never ever, in a million years, would have been the younger sister of the one person in town who quite literally might castrate him for it. So that's how he knows this isn't what it looks like. What he doesn't know, is what this _is_.

Allie's lying on her back, but she tilts her chin slightly to look at him when he says her name. He's not sure if it's a relief that she looks as confused as he feels.

“What the hell are you doing here?” His voice comes out a little rougher than he meant it to, sleep still clinging at his edges.

“I was actually hoping _ you _ could answer that question. What happened last night?” She seems calm in a way that makes Harry think of bad news and hushed whispers. He doesn't have an answer for her.

“Nothing happened last night. Party ended, everyone went home.”

“Yeah, and why am I here?” And there goes her calm, fraying when put under pressure. Oddly enough, it makes Harry feel better. _ Nothing happened_, which is all that really matters, right? Allie's here, and it's weird, but it doesn't have to mean anything changes. He can get up, go find Kelly, iron things out between them like they always do, and it can all be normal again. Or... as normal as any of this can be.

“Fuck if I know. You weren't here when I fell asleep.”

“I went to sleep in my own bed last night, Harry! And now I'm here instead!”

“Maybe you sleepwalk.”

“I think I would have noticed that by now. And what, I start sleepwalking for the first time ever and climb into _your_ bed?” Harry feels his lips tilt up on their own accord.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Didn't say anything, Pressman.” The nickname rolls off his tongue like something easy and old between them, and he has no idea why. Harry's hardly ever even talked to Allie. She's the more likable of the Pressman sisters in Harry's opinion, she could even be cool, but it doesn't negate the fact that she's inextricably linked to Cassandra- Cassandra, who never fails to set Harry's teeth on edge.

“Why aren't you acting more freaked out about this? The whole town up and vanished and I fell asleep one place and woke up in an entirely different one!”

“We don't know that the whole town vanished, I thought Cassandra said they probably just evacuated, right? That's the story she's selling to everyone, anyway, huh? Look, I fell asleep in my bed, I woke up in my bed, I don't see how I have a problem. This sounds like it's all you.” He only half believes what he's saying. But Harry's pretty good at lying to himself, at making up truths and repeating them to himself over and over until he starts to believe them himself. And what good does it do for both of them to be panicking? He can't go down that road. If he does, he isn't sure when he'll resurface.

“Fuck off, Harry. You think this doesn't involve you? You think that it was just random that I ended up _here_? It's not my fault you're in some pissing contest with my sister, but leave me and your shitty attitude out of it.”

He starts to say something, though he honestly has no idea what he's intending to say, just something, anything to try to suppress the fear that's at the back of his throat, no matter how flippant it seems, no matter how much it makes her glare at him like she is now. But he's cut off by the arrival of texts to both their phones, and honestly, it's a relief.

“Cassandra wants us all to meet at the church in an hour to discuss our situation,” Allie half reads, half tells him.

“Well if _her majesty_ has called...”

Allie looks at him, and there's something in her eyes that makes him feel about two inches tall. He's never really felt bad about the shit he says about Cassandra- he's sure she says plenty about him, but the expression on Allie's face makes him wish he'd kept his mouth shut.

“Piss off, Harry.” She swings her legs out of bed, not even sparing him another glance. Allie Pressman is standing in the middle of his bedroom, in pink llama pajama pants, her hair a tangled mess, and he feels a desperate need to have her attention back, if only for a moment. He has nothing to say.

She's halfway to the door when he calls out after her. “Nice pajama pants!”

She doesn't even look back.

Harry's pretty sure that what he's supposed to be thinking about is the fact that something _really fucked up_ is going on in this town. That he, like everyone else, is supposed to be figuring out if they can leave, what's out there, _why_ they're here, in a place that looks like home, but isn't. He's fairly certain he should be right there with them. But instead, he's thinking about the look on Kelly's face when he'd seen her that afternoon, and the way she'd said “I don't want us to be together anymore.”

There's not a single piece of him that wants to believe it. But he knows Kelly, knows her better than almost anyone, and he knows from the look on her face and that little crease she gets between her eyebrows, that she meant every word. She _doesn't_ want to be with him anymore. It's the sort of truth that takes the air right out of his lungs. Because what is there to say to that? He doesn't just want her, he wants her to want him back, and she doesn't. End of story.

He's had that sick, twisted, gut feeling all morning, the one that rises up his throat like bile and threatens to cut off his air, but he's been pushing it down, back. Deep breaths, shaky hands, think about something else, anything else. It works for a while. Then it stops working, and he's bent over his kitchen counter hyperventilating into a paper bag like he hasn't in months. Fifty three steps exactly to his mother's medicine cabinet and the prescription pills that can take the edge off.

Harry's never found condoms there before. He doesn't know if it's the Xanax or the shock that makes the panic sink back down under his skin, but he's not sure if the sad, sick, angry feeling that wells up in its place is better. He knows he shouldn't, he knows it won't end well, but he can't seem to help himself- he calls Kelly.

Three pills later, an hour and half after Kelly had walked out looking at him like she's torn between anger and pity, he's relaxed, far away, somewhere up in the clouds, basking in the warmth of the sun. He's got a book in hand, but it's more for show than anything else. Harry doesn't even know what it's about, doesn't care, can't really feel like he needs to care about anything. It's bliss.

“It wasn't just us.” It takes Harry almost a full three seconds to adjust to the fact that he's suddenly not alone. Allie Pressman is sitting on the bench next to him (when did she get here?), her face lit up with a kind of caring that Harry's not sure he's ever felt about anything. It's hard to remember right now.

“Well, hello to you too.”

“Didn't you hear me? It wasn't just us! I heard Erika saying that Gwen woke up in Andrew Freedman's bed and Clark's _pissed_. They both swear they have no idea how she got there. See? Not just us!”

Harry learned a long time ago to smile like he knows something everyone else doesn't. It's an easy mask to hide behind, while he processes, panics, hurts. He can use it for any of them. Right now, he's playing catch up. Allie's problem solving and he's hiding. Harry feels the smallest sliver of self loathing, familiar, almost comforting, before it slips away. He has no idea what he's supposed to say to that, no idea what he's supposed to _feel_ about that, so he falls back on what he does know- how to get a reaction.

“You keep saying “us” but I think this is a _you_ problem, Pressman. I didn't wake up anywhere but my own bed.”

“You seriously think this has nothing to do with you?”

“Why should it?”

“Because it's not just us!” Harry thinks, absently, that he likes this side of Allie, the stubborn, furious light in her eyes. She's usually so much a part of the background, a thread in the fabric of a town that doesn't stand out. Right now, she's blazing.

“_Or_ Gwen cheated on Clark and is trying to cover it up.” Harry shrugs. “Stranger things have happened. I heard she's got some guy on retainer or something.”

“That's not true.”

“Or something.”

“Fine.” Allie stands up. “I can pretend everything is normal too, but eventually you're going to have to admit I'm right.”

“Don't hold your breath, Pressman.” She waves him off, shoulders squared, all determination. Harry finds himself smiling for real as he watches her walk away.

* * *

If you'd asked him before all this, Harry would have bet you any amount of money that Allie Pressman would never, _ever _sleep with him. In this case, Harry doesn't actually mind being wrong. He's just not really sure how it happened. He'd asked Allie to come play fugitive with him because she's pretty, and he'd still been a little high, and he's sick of Kelly making him feel so pathetic. Plus, Allie had been flirting with him at the gas station, even if she didn't mean it. It had felt good, to not feel so small. But Harry had never thought she'd show up.

He'd never thought she'd throw herself into the game with a reckless sort of fearlessness that he finds both terrifying and awe inspiring. Harry's always been known for snap decisions and occasionally wild behavior, but in truth, it's a lot more calculated than most people know. He doesn't know how to turn his brain off without alcohol or pills. He's always thinking, worrying, wondering, projecting. God, he thinks he's gotten good at projecting. Put on show, control what people think of you, even if it's bad. Allie doesn't feel like that. She feels authentic.

Harry can't help but think, sitting next to her at the pool, everything a little soft and fuzzy from whatever he's been drinking, that in his head Allie's always been an addendum to Cassandra, a footnote when she should have been the whole story. Allie is nothing like her sister, and Harry wishes he'd known that sooner, known _her_ sooner. There's something in her, that he catches flashes of, that makes him feel seen, makes him feel like more than a projection of himself.

Somehow, this ends with them tangled together in his bed. He's still, hours later, not really clear on how. It had been her idea, he thinks. Or... well, maybe he was _thinking _it first, but she'd been the one to suggest it. The way she'd looked at him, from under her lashes, with her lips just barely tilted up in the hint of a smile, like she knew him and everything he's ever wanted, he thinks he probably would have done anything she'd said.

He still craves that, even now, in the harsh reality of some distance, the way Allie makes him feel seen. It was probably a mistake. He and Kelly might technically be broken up, but it's still a fresh wound. He's not over it. He doesn't even know how to begin to get over it; he's never been broken up with before. The last thing he needs is to get his feelings tangled up with someone else. But when he wakes up in the morning, blinks his eyes open, and sees blonde hair on the pillow next to him, his heart gives a little involuntary lurch, and Harry lies there and thinks about how much of a fucking idiot he is.

He hears the whispers, the word _soulmate_, getting passed quietly around, like it's some dirty secret. There's a sort of feverish excitement surrounding the whole thing. It feels private, a little taboo. What does it mean, that people all over town are falling asleep and waking up in each other's beds? What does it mean for couples, suddenly flung apart by some cosmic force they can't control? If they hadn't imploded at the smallest sign of conflict, Harry and Kelly would have been one of those. Whenever he hears the word soulmate, he thinks about that. Harry finds himself swinging wildly from a gut deep feeling of rejection to annoyance, knowing exactly where Kelly is waking up each morning.

She'd told him, fingers on his elbow, pulling him away from his friends, voice soft and almost apologetic. It hits him the gut, a flash of white hot anger, followed by something that feels a little like resignation. He doesn't get to be angry. He's got the same thing with Allie. Allie, who he slept with. He's pretty sure Kelly hasn't slept with Will. _Yet_, a little voice in his head can't help but add. It's only a matter of time, isn't it?

He sees the way Kelly looks at Will, that reluctant sort of fondness. He knows that look. She used to look at him like that, back when they were both fifteen and dancing around each other, no idea how to express their feelings. Sometimes, Harry thinks, not much has changed. He still has no idea what he's doing. He and Kelly aren't speaking unless they have to. He and Allie are pretending like nothing's ever happened (at least, he _thinks_ that's what they're doing). And the whole fucking world is falling apart around them.

Harry should know better than to let his heart beat a little harder when Allie finally seeks him out. One little head tilt, and he's following her to the gazebo like a lost puppy. He shoves his hands in his pockets, hopes he looks like he doesn't care.

“I know you know what people have been saying,” is what she opens with- straight to the point. Allie can be blunt, and Harry thinks he should find it off putting, but he mostly just finds it to be a relief. It makes it easier to know where he stands with her.

“Sure,” he shrugs. His nonchalance annoys her, and he knows it. He can't seem to help himself, though. Allie doesn't seem to realize it's a preservation tactic. Don't take a side, make things into a joke, smile like you have a secret. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

“Gwen has a whole theory about phases of the moon and...” Harry doesn't really care what Gwen has to say. He just watches Allie talk, intense and fervent and transparent. She reminds him of the bonfires he used to build in his backyard for parties, slow to catch, but long to burn. She could be warm. Or she could become an inferno.

“And what does Her Highness say about all this? About us?” Harry asks, when Allie finally finishes talking about all the things Gwen had said.

Allie falters; some of that fire dims. “I don't... I don't think Cassandra needs to know.”

“Keeping secrets from our fearless leader?” That doesn't seem like the Pressman sisters he knows.

“Harry.”

He grins at her, small, amused, forced. He hopes she can't tell.

“Even if I told her the truth... People will assume things, even Cassandra, and the last thing I need is to be stuck in the middle of you two. No one needs to know about this.”

“But you said they already _do_ know about this, Gwen and Andrew, Helena and Luke, and that weird guy with Lexie.” He trails off, quiet for a moment, before forcing the words out, giving voice to the truth that he's still trying to come to terms with. “Will and Kelly.”

Allie blinks at him. “Will and Kelly?”

“You didn't know?”

“Kelly told you that?” Allie sounds, suddenly, so small, and Harry wishes he could take it all back. He hadn't expected it to be news to her. She and Will actually seem like they're on speaking terms, unlike him and Kelly these days.

“Yeah.” The shrug he forces out feels like it weighs a million pounds.

“Did you tell her about us?”

Harry looks away. “Which thing about us?” He knows what she means, but he wants her to say it. Before they slept together, Allie didn't seem afraid to say anything to him. Probably because she didn't give a fuck if she hurt his feelings, but that had felt good, to be around someone who says what they really feel. Ever since that night, she hasn't looked at him straight. Harry doesn't regret what they did. He hates that he's pretty sure Allie does.

“Did you?” Allie demands.

“No. I didn't tell her anything. That's not the point, why are you so adamant about hiding it? Everyone already knows what's happening.”

Allie scuffs her shoe on the concrete floor, swinging her feet where they barely even touch ground. She doesn't meet his eyes. “Yeah, they know it's happening to people. They don't know it's happening to _us_. And they don't need to.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because... Look, maybe if we'd never... you know, but we did, and if people find out that we're also one of these weird teleportation duos, then they'll start _asking_, and I'm not good at lying to my sister.”

Oh. Of course. Of _course_ this is about Cassandra. He should have known it from the beginning, from the moment she'd said '_I don't think Cassandra needs to know_.' Because Cassandra's opinion means everything to Allie, and Harry has never, not for one moment of his life, measured up in Cassandra's eyes. Of course Allie's ashamed of him.

“Ah,” Harry hears the way his voice has lost all its humor, but he doesn't know how to get it back, not when this cold feeling is sinking in his chest. “So that's what this is about. Can't have Cassandra finding out you're sleeping with the enemy.”

“_Slept_ with the enemy.”

“And continue to wake up in his bed every morning,” Harry shoots back, aiming to wound.

“That's _different_,” Allie snaps. He knows that. He feels how _different_ things are with them in each breath that he takes.

“Whatever, Allie.” Harry stands up, body loose and relaxed and completely at war with every single thing he's feeling. Of course he's not good enough for Allie Pressman. She's not Cassandra, but she shares her sister's opinions and standards. He never should have thought anything different. He might as well be dirt beneath her shoes. He won't make the mistake of believing he's anything else again.

“I better get going before anyone realizes I'm your dirty little secret.” He doesn't look back when he leaves her there.

* * *

He avoids Allie from then on out, keeps his eyes closed in the morning, even when he wakes up and knows she's there, warm and breathing softly next to him. But it only lasts three days before Cassandra and Gordie call a mandatory meeting to address all the rumors flying around. Harry can't avoid Allie entirely in the church, but he chooses a seat far away from her, tries to keep his eyes from wandering, clasps his hands together so no one will see them trembling with the nerves that have been plaguing him all day.

“I don't know what's causing this,” Gordie's been talking around how little they know for ten minutes now. Harry just wants to go home. “but I have some theories. On a subatomic level-”

“Soulmates!” It's Shoe who yells it, sitting somewhere to Harry's left. It's not like he hasn't heard people whisper it, but there's something about hearing it out loud, so sure and confident, that sparks something a little panicky in Harry's chest. That's not an explanation he can accept. Not when his supposed 'soulmate' would choose literally anyone but him. He doesn't want that.

“Technically, I'm not sure that's a scientifically quantifiable theory,” Gordie says, patient, but looking pained.

“That's not a no.” It's Jason who speaks up this time.

“Well... No, it's not a _no_, but I don't think there's any way to _prove_ that anyone is someone's soulmate, much less these specific duos. I think we just have to accept there's something cosmic going on here.”

“So... soulmates,” Clark is unabashedly unhappy about this. It's no secret that Gwen wakes up with Andrew every morning, not him. There's a sort of soft hum that goes through the church, waiting for Gordie's answer. Like he knows any more than the rest of them. Like it all hinges on what he says next.

“Fuck, fine, I don't know, maybe. Sure, it could be soulmates,” Gordie gives in. And it's like there's some sort of magnet drawing his gaze upward, Harry helpless to resist, as he meets Allie's eyes across the church. She looks scared, more than anything.

Harry feels his lips twist up in that smile he doesn't mean, that one he learned so long ago he doesn't think about anymore. It's not like things are different than they were three days ago. He's still just a secret she's afraid someone will figure out.

_Soulmates_. The word lingers in the air. Does it even matter if it's true? In the morning, he'll wake up with Allie's hair spread out on his pillow, and he'll be as alone as he was yesterday. That's the truth that Harry knows.


	2. Take Your Heart Out of Your Holster

Harry wouldn't call it easy, the way things start to settle. Maybe that's because he always feels like he's walking on a knife's edge, like he could wake up in the morning and the whole world could be different again. He can't help but wonder if he's the only one who feels like that, like he's living on borrowed time. Maybe the constant tension he feels is because he's had five panic attacks this month and the last two he never even saw coming. Or maybe it's because he _hates_ working. Manual labor is not in Harry Bingham's vocabulary. You can't charm your way to mopped floors and dished foods and no one looks good in a hairnet. It's menial work and it makes him feel that way, reminds him how little he actually matters in the scheme of things, and how hard he's worked not to feel that way.

Some of the kids seem to be enjoying their newfound freedom, even if it does come with work shifts and brooms. Harry just wants to go home. He wants to walk into his house and trip over Kitty's ugly pink sandals that she's always kicking off right in front of the door. He wants to be annoyed with her, and have their confrontation end with her somehow convincing him to take her out to get cookies from that ridiculously expensive allergen sensitive bakery their mom likes. Kitty's even better than Harry at getting what she wants. Harry isn't sure he's ever said no to her.

He misses Kitty the most, out of everything that's different. Harry supposes he misses his mom, too, but he hasn't felt close to her in years. She's never been home much since he was about twelve, and he's not sure he even knows his mom beyond basic lists and personality traits. She likes perfectly dusted shelves and coconut milk yogurt and heels with pointy toes. She drinks Red Zinfandel late at night when she thinks he and Kitty are both asleep, and she never talks about Harry's father. And his father.... Harry still can't walk past his dad's office without thinking about the missing Persian carpet, the one his mom had had rolled up and taken away when they couldn't get the bloodstains out. It's easier not to think about his father.

So no, Harry would never call what they have here easy, but it does become routine. It's impossible for it not to. It's human nature to adapt, even to the weirdest of circumstances, and they have. For the most part. But Harry still hates that there are strangers living in his house. He hates the lack of privacy and the way they help themselves to anything of his they want. Harry cares about his things, is careful with them, and it feels like they're taking pieces of him, dismantling him block by block. He feels rent open, exposed, there for the taking. He hates it.

It's different for Cassandra, even though she likes to preach about how everyone's going through this together. They're not. There aren't strangers in _her_ house, it's her family and her friends. It's people she'd want there anyway. It's people who care about _her_ and her feelings and how they treat her and her things. She can preach fairness and equality all she wants, Cassandra's fashioned herself a crown and a castle and court and she's a queen in everything but name.

Harry's never liked her, never liked the way she talks down to him, slowly and sweetly like he's too fucking dumb to know what she's doing. It's like no one else sees what she's doing. Maybe she has good intentions, but Harry doesn't fucking care, because her good intentions come wrapped in self righteousness and a superiority complex. Maybe Cassandra can't help it; people have been telling her she's the best (at everything, at anything) her whole life, maybe she can't help but believe it. But there is nothing Harry hates more than someone who looks at him and smiles patronizingly and makes him feel so unfairly small.

But Allie... Allie isn't like that. Oh, sure, she's made him feel small too, but that all stems right back to Cassandra. All she wants is her sister's approval, in a desperate sort of way that makes Harry a little sad and a lot angry, that her parents and her sister let her grow up thinking she's unimportant in comparison to her older sister. He can see it, in the way Allie forces herself to fade when Cassandra's around. It's an instinct, almost a defense mechanism, like Allie's terrified of what the consequences will be if she takes up just the smallest bit of space that could be Cassandra's.

It's because of this that he finds himself climbing through a window of the Carlson's house in search of the old air hockey table he knows was, at least once, there. He finds it, and wine, and Allie's competitive spirit. It's a combination he quickly becomes fond of, despite his own complete and total failure. It's easy to blame on the alcohol, even if it's a lie. It's easy to watch the way she lights up, shining in a way he's never witnessed around Cassandra, and wish she didn't spend so much of her time dimming her own brilliance. In the past couple of weeks, he's only seen Allie in the mornings, blinking sleepily at her when she crawls out of his bed. Sometimes, he thinks he murmurs complaints about the early hour, but he doesn't remember when he wakes up later.

This is the first, since that night of fugitive, that he's seen her for _real_, uninhibited and fearless and _happy_. Harry shoves away the voice in his head that says she's really pretty like this, almost painfully so. That's not the point. That's not why they're here. And what he thinks doesn't matter. Even with the alcohol warming his veins, he's not so far gone to not remember that there's still Cassandra. Harry might be able to pull Allie away for a few minutes, watch her blossom free of the shadow of her sister, but at the end of the day, they are who they are, and he'll never measure up.

Allie steals these thoughts from him with her laughter and then he's moving without thinking about it, pillows and wine bottles, and Allie warm in his arms when he swings her around, spinning, or maybe that's the world around them. He isn't sure.

For one, surreal, easy moment, he thinks he could kiss her. Allie, with her cheeks pink, and her eyes bright, and so much life just brimming from her. He wants to soak that up, the way she feels so full of everything he's never able to hold onto.

“What are you guys doing down here?” Luke standing in the doorway brings the rest of the world back. Harry and Luke are friends, but in the way that all the boys with big houses and nice cars and distant parents are friends. Luke doesn't know anything honest about Harry. He never has.

And Allie's gone from his arms, reality taking her place. Harry should've known better. He's already breaking promises to himself, careening through barriers he'd built up for a reason. He feels the warmth in his blood slipping away, leaving him cold and tired and feeling stupid.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asks Luke, instead of answering his question. What would his answer be, anyway? Making a fool of myself. Letting myself be made a fool of. Forgetting where I belong. Throwing away my dignity to be someone's shameful secret. Something like that.

“Someone texted the guard about the lights being on in here. Cassandra sent me to check it out. It's pretty late, most people aren't up anymore.”

“We were just...” Allie's cheeks are still pink, and when she gestures at the air hockey table, it's a little wild. “You know.”

“Right...” Luke rubs the back of his neck, and Harry thinks, yeah, he _knows_, no matter Allie's denial, which is exactly why he looks so uncomfortable right now. He'd taken one look at their flushed cheeks and how close they'd been standing and Luke knew where it easily could have all gone. Harry's almost glad he interrupted. He's not interested in yet again being what Allie thinks of as a mistake. Luke's arrival is an escape. “Walk you home, Allie?”

Harry can feel Allie look at him before she answers, but he doesn't meet her eyes. He's not sure he can. He has to be stronger than this, stronger than throwing away all his pride for a few glasses of wine and her smile. Allie doesn't know him anymore than Luke knows him. She's flirting with the forbidden, but at the end of the day she wants her world in little boxes and her sister's seal of approval. Harry's not any of that. He knows it, and she knows it, that much is clear.

“Okay, yeah.” Allie moves in Luke's direction slowly, like he might stop her. He won't. “See you later?” Her voice sounds delicate, and he can't bring himself to say the biting thing that's at the tip of his tongue. It'd be a lie, anyway.

“Yeah, sure,” is what he says instead, still not looking at her. And then he doesn't have to work not to look at her, because she's gone. He wishes it felt like a relief.

* * *

Harry keeps thinking that one day he won't be shocked by anything he finds out about his parents anymore. But when Kelly shows up at his house, agitated and a little incoherent, digging through the drawers in his mother's vanity while he tries to pull an explanation out of her, and then announces that her father and his mother had been having an affair, Harry realizes it's not today.

He doesn't want to believe it. Even with everything that's happened, he still doesn't want to think it's true. His mom might not owe anyone anything, but after what Harry's father had done to her... He'd always wanted to believe she'd never be involved in doing that to someone else; that he had at least one parent who _tried_ to just be a basic fucking decent human being.

But Kelly won't let it go, won't let him shove it under the rug, so the next thing he knows, they're staring at messages between their parents on his mom's computer, like it can solve anything, to know for sure. Harry doesn't feel any better. He doesn't think Kelly does either. Not if the frantic way in which she tries to extract herself from the situation is anything to go by. He tries to stop her. He wants to talk to her. Harry misses having someone to talk to. And Kelly, who had typed in his birthday like remembering it is nothing, is maybe the only person in this whole fucking town who really knows him- knows _him_, and not just the paper thin projection. It makes her rejection sting all the more.

“Can't we just forget about this? I mean, this isn't about us. It has nothing to do with us.” He thinks about how once, Kelly had been so excited to be with him, beamed up at him like he was someone to be so proud of, and he never knew why. He just desperately wants that feeling back.

“There is no us.”

“Because of this?” It's a stupid question. He knows it even as he's asking. She'd dumped him long before this came to light. But God, he wishes it were about this. If it were about this, it would be fixable.

“Because of everything.”

It almost doesn't hurt when she says it, a blow to the ribs he sees coming, a fission of exhaustion rolling down his spine in response to her parting words. Almost. Harry knows exactly how to get the rest of the way to “not at all.”

He is not, under any circumstances, supposed to go looking for reasons to talk to Allie. It's a rule he'd made for himself, after he'd absorbed the quick way she'd stepped away from him when Luke had interrupted them and the reality of their situation had sunk back in. Distance is the best policy here, for both of them. If she's avoiding him, well... he's avoiding her too, eyes kept firmly shut in the mornings when he knows she's there, no matter how much he wants to look.

But drunk Harry, as already established, makes decisions that sober Harry wouldn't. So drunk Harry thinks it's a great idea, when he stumbles across the hockey trophy in Gwen's house one night, the rest of the football guys playing a completely incompetent game of pool while Gwen and her friends lounge on the sofas and smoke the last of Clark's weed, to just take the trophy with him. No one tries to stop him; probably, no one notices.

It sits in his room for a few days, mocking him. Sober, it seems like a completely stupid thing to do, steal some kids hockey trophy and overwrite his name with someone else's. That impulsivity belongs entirely to his impaired self, but the trophy sits solid in his room all the same. He goes back and forth on whether he should give it to her. On the one hand, he _shouldn't_, he knows this because nothing good can come of him forgetting that at the end of the day, Allie wants nothing to do with him. On the other hand, the longer it sits in his room, the more he can't forget about it. If he gives it to her, it's gone. Nothing left to think about it. 

Harry's careful about his timing, approaching her at the end of one of Cassandra's meeting, sliding up the pew behind her, casual, even though his joints feel a little unsteady. 

“I got you something.” 

Allie glances back at him over her shoulder, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. Her gaze goes from him to something past his shoulder, something that makes her swallow and frown, and Harry's insides clench a little in disappointment. 

“What?” She asks, making a dismissive waving motion with her hand at whoever is behind him. Probably Will. It seems like Will's always a problem for Harry, with Kelly, with Allie, just in general. 

“You gotta come outside to see. I thought it might draw too much attention if I brought it in with me.” It's work to keep his voice light, amused, but he thinks he manages it if they way her eyebrows go up and the corners of her mouth tilt like she can't help it. 

“That is not comforting.” 

“I'm wounded.” Harry says mockingly, a hand to his chest. “It's like you don't trust me at all.” He straightens up before she can answer, feet already carrying him to the door. He's afraid if he stands there much longer, he'll say something, anything, to make the tilt of her lips slide into a full blown smile; he already wants that too much. 

By the time she catches up to him, Harry's retrieved the trophy and has it behind his back, walking backwards so he can keep eye contact with her. She's looking at him amused, and pretend annoyed, and maybe just the tiniest bit soft. This was a mistake. 

“You're gonna be impressed.” He says, stalling for a moment, like if he has more time he can rewind this whole interaction and change his mind, go back to pretending like she doesn't exist. Go back to before he knew he craved her smile. 

“Doubtful. Now what is it?” 

There's nothing for it, now. Harry unveils her gift with a sarcastic flourish. “Ta-da.”

“This is a hockey trophy.” She takes it from him, brow furrowed, like she's waiting for the punchline. 

“Yep.”

“Why are you giving me a hockey trophy?”

There's a little thrill of giddiness that shoots through his chest. This is why he did this. “Well, I don't think they make ones for air hockey,” Harry says, eyes widened just a little bit the way he does when he wants his teachers to think he's sincere. 

Allie tries not to smile. “I think they probably  _do_ , actually. They make pretty much anything, Harry.” 

“Okay, sorry, correction- I don't think anyone in West Ham owns an air hockey trophy. And Amazon Prime isn't exactly delivering these days.”

“Did you cross out Gwen's little brother's name with a sharpie?” She sounds somewhere between disapproving and gleeful. It's a little bit like watching an ember warm up, slow, glowing brighter each moment. 

“Guilty?” He knows he's grinning shamelessly, now, can't help himself. He shouldn't want her smiles, but he does, and he feels warm all over that he's earned it. 

“This is the most fucked up present anyone's ever given me.” She is unmistakably pleased.

“You're very welcome.” 

“I'll cherish it forever.” Her sarcasm is somewhat marred by the fact that she's grinning back at him. 

“As you should.” The front door to the church bangs open, and Allie startles, grin disappearing as she glances over her shoulder nervously, like they're doing something wrong. It cools the warmth in Harry's chest a little bit. Still a secret, but he knew that wasn't going to change. He's still him, after all. He goes before she can turn back around, let her keep her secret intact. If she doesn't want people to know he can make her smile, that's on her. 

Harry can feel her eyes on his back. “Don't get too attached, I'm coming for that title, Pressman!” He doesn't look back to see if that pulled a smile from her, but he's pretty sure he knows the answer.

Prom is nothing it's supposed to be. He's not supposed to be drunk by his pool before it even starts. He's not supposed to be somewhere between angry and numb and spiraling a little bit. He doesn't want all these people here, guys like Jason and Shoe and some whose names he doesn't even know, but this has always been where they come when they want to fuck off- Harry's, where the parents are absent and the rules don't matter. Even when their parents have _vanished_ and the rules are being made up by Cassandra Pressman, they show up here. Old habits die hard.

He only remembers it in bits and pieces. It's Jason, running his mouth as usual, talking shit about everyone. Golf balls in the pool. That weird, skinny, kid asking if Harry's going to prom and he doesn't know. He doesn't know because he was supposed to dress up in a tux and take way too many photos with Kelly in the front garden that his mom would frame and put on the mantle and point to when there was company and pretend he mattered.

He was supposed to eat at the one truly expensive restaurant in town, and ride in a limo, and be forced to dance by his girlfriend, sneak a flask into the building and get tipsy and warm and a little handsy. Kelly would laugh and tell him not to, but not mean it. And then they'd come home and his mom would stay in her room and pretend she didn't know that Kelly was spending the night, and Harry was supposed to be happy. There's no chance of any of that now.

Harry's drunk enough that he doesn't really remember how it happens. One moment Jason's being Jason, obnoxious and loud, and needling everyone, and the next, he says something about Kelly that makes Harry's chest crack open and something terribly dark and furious come spilling out. He doesn't remember all the words. He doesn't remember exactly who says what.

What he remembers is this- his mouth is running, and he's thinking about Kelly flinching away from him after she found out about their parents, and he's thinking about Allie and the way she doesn't want anyone to know he's ever so much as looked her way, he's thinking about the people in his house when he just wants to be alone, the calluses on his palms that never used to be there, he's thinking about how it's never Kitty's shoes that he trips over by the front door and how Allie crawls out of his bed at the cack of dawn to make sure no one sees her. And it all coalesces into one moment of something that feels like clarity. It's all about Cassandra.

If Cassandra were gone, things would be different. And it feels good to say so. It feels good to see the look of shock on the rest of their faces, to let the ugliest part of him loose and not even try to stop it. He spends so much of his time not saying what he thinks or feels, so what if it's cruel and furious and wrong? It's not like it changes anything. Nothing he says is going to change anything. _At least she'd be dead. And finally we'd have some quiet._That's what he remembers later.

Somehow, he ends up at prom. He's even wearing a tux, has vague memories of one of the guys bullying him into it, but he's not sure when or where or who. Keeping a drink in his hand, that's what he cares about. Drink, don't think. But he can't help it when his eyes seek out Kelly, an instinct from years of paying attention to how it feels like the light changes when she's in a room, everything a little brighter. She's not even dressed up, like she hadn't intended to come at all, but she's radiant when she smiles at Will like that. It's painfully obvious to Harry that she hasn't smiled at him like that in a long time. Even before the whole world shifted she wasn't smiling at him like _that_ anymore. He wonders when it changed, when he lost her.

Campbell's arrival is silent but palpable, the looming threat of a storm. He and Harry aren't friends, not really. In truth, that's not really different from Harry's relationships with everyone else, is it? Harry's starkly aware that Campbell never does anything that he doesn't think benefits him somehow. But Campbell is one of the few people Harry's ever met that makes him feel see through. There's some level of relief in that, in feeling like he doesn't have to pretend. He could, but Campbell would just give him that look out of the corner of his eyes and either call him on his bullshit or not say anything at all. So Harry doesn't have to hide the way he can't stop looking at Kelly.

The pill Campbell slides him across the table is white and little rounder than Harry's mom's Xanax, longer than the pills Harry keeps in his bedside table. He's fuzzy, but not too fuzzy to ask.

“What is this?”

“It'll numb the pain.” Campbell's voice is smug. If Harry were up to it, he might feel annoyed. As it is, he's spent his emotional energy on Kelly's smile and Will's hand on her waist. He takes the pill and goes to make himself something else to drink.

Allie finds him at the bar. Harry hadn't seen her come in, is surprised she's put herself within five feet of him when he's barely glimpsed her in days. He thinks she's been avoiding him since that night in the Carlson's basement, even after he'd approached her at the church. Which is fine by him, he reminds himself; he's been avoiding her too. Keep the distance.

“You came,” Allie says, and she sounds almost as unhappy as he feels. He wonders, before he can help himself, why that might be.

“So did you.”

Allie's only response is to pour herself a shot of whiskey and knock it back. And there she is, that fearless, reckless, fire of a girl that Harry can never help but find himself be warmed by. He thinks he might be smiling.

“Hey, you should have some of this, it'll taste better than straight whiskey.” He offers her his drink, swaps it for the whiskey she'd been holding, popping the pour spout off so it'll be easier for him to drink straight from the bottle.

And he thinks, for one brief moment, long enough for him to open his mouth, that maybe if they have to be miserable, they can be miserable together. But when he asks her if she wants to dance, Allie looks away and says, “It's probably simpler in the long run if we don't. And I'm not really in the mood.”

“Yeah,” Harry finds the words sliding out without even thinking about them, already berating himself for opening himself up for rejection from her yet again (when is he going to learn to stop doing that?) “Me neither.”

Allie's smile is strained around the edges. “Thanks for the drink!” And then she's gone, and Harry reminds himself that if he has nothing else, he has the rest of this bottle of whiskey. At some point, Campbell's pill kicks in, and then he doesn't remember anything else anyway.

He wakes up in the dark, coming back to consciousness slowly, his mind in pieces. There is someone sitting on his bed.

“Allie?” He thinks it's her, though he can hardly even make out her outline in the dark.

“I can't get out of this stupid dress and you're on top of the covers.” There's a frustrated edge in her voice that borders on hysterical.

“C'mere.” He's not sure he'll really be any better, but he shoves himself into a sitting position anyway. He thinks the room is spinning, but it's so dark he can't tell. Allie's skin is warm, almost fever hot, where he touches her, and it takes him two tries to get her zipper down.

It takes so much of his concentration to properly deal with her zipper, Harry's not expecting it when Allie kisses him. _She doesn't really want __**you**_, some little piece of his mind is whispering, but more of him, the part that controls his limbs and his lips and that's currently struggling to maintain which direction exactly is _up_, doesn't much care.

“I thought you said we shouldn't. Too complicated or something.” It takes all of his self control to voice this, still so close their lips brush when he speaks.

“I think it might already be complicated.” He hesitates, just one more moment, and if his brain weren't so fragmented, if his thoughts weren't all flung out to the corners of his mind, if he didn't want so badly to feel wanted, even if it's just for a moment, he might say something else.

Instead, what he says is, “Yeah.” And then he kisses her and lets go of all the reasons he knows he shouldn't.

And later, after, with his heart beating off tempo against his ribs, and Allie's hair still curled in his fingers, it feels possible to say, “It doesn't have to be complicated.”

As soon as the words leave the tip of his tongue, he knows it's a lie. It's been complicated since the moment he woke up and found her next to him.

When Allie's alarm goes off in the morning, it feels gentler than he's used to, coaxing him awake. It's still too early, and she's warm and all pressed up against him, legs tangled together. It would be so easy to ignore it. Even with the way his gut lurches a little as his brain processes what they'd done the night before, what he'd _let_ himself do and feel, he hopes she might. She doesn't.

“Don't,” he mutters, as she pulls away from him, the word an involuntary plea that escapes before he can stop it. She falters, but only for a moment.

He's still the slightest bit blurry at the edges, and it is this, he will tell himself later, and only this, that allows him say, “You could just stay.”

Allie glances at him over her shoulder, long blonde hair spilling down her back, her profile lit golden by the morning sunlight streaming in his window. She looks immortal, too ethereal to touch.

“Maybe some other time.” Harry doesn't think she means that. If last night doesn't make things different, probably nothing ever will. And he knew, he knew when she said _'I'm not good at lying to my sister,' _when she stepped away from him at the Carlson's after Luke showed up,when she'd looked guiltily over her shoulder outside the church, when her lips had tilted in that reluctant almost apologetic smile before she told him they shouldn't dance together. He _knew _he'd never be the guy she thinks is good enough. But he hadn't stopped wanting. Harry's a slow learner, apparently.

“I'm gonna hold you to that, Pressman,” he murmurs, and then he rolls away, presses his face into his pillow so she won't see when he can't fake a smile, so she won't guess that he knows he's still just a wrong choice on a bad night.

She's quiet when she goes, and if he couldn't still smell her shampoo on his pillow, he'd think maybe she'd never been there at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey loves! 
> 
> thanks for the lovely feedback on chapter 1! I wasn't expecting this companion piece either, tbh. 
> 
> just a quick reminder that harry's thoughts and feelings are his alone, and not meant to justify his behavior, just explain it. Cassandra to Harry comes off as a bit of a jerk because that's how he views her, not because I think Cassandra is a bad person/character.
> 
> EDIT: while writing chapter 3 I realized there was a missing scene from chapter 2 I intended to include so I'm updating chapter 2 with that scene now (August 5th, 2019) if you're reading this sometime after this date, then there's nothing different.


	3. Waiting for Something That Will Keep You from the Cold

Harry learns about Cassandra's death in the afternoon. He's only just stumbled out of bed, mouth dry, right shoulder kinked up from all the hours he's spent asleep, when he discovers about thirty unread texts on his phone. They vary in level of alarm, but they all boil down to one thing. Sometime after prom last night, someone shot and killed Cassandra Pressman.

His first thought is that it can't be true. It's some sick joke, a prank, people messing around, a fascination with the morbid. His second is that, if it is true, this will flatten Allie. He thinks of her that morning, backlit by the sun, gilded gold. She'd looked untouchable. He'd been too afraid to try to touch her.

Under all that, at the back of his mind, there's a slow sort of fear beginning to catch. He doesn't remember a lot of it, but he knows enough of what he said last night. He can remember enough to be afraid it's not a coincidence. _At least she'd be dead_. Harry knows now, in the face of his words come to life, that he hadn't meant it. Of course he hadn't meant that. People say a lot of shit when they're drunk. He's never really wanted Cassandra to die. But no amount of regret can resurrect the dead. 

The last funeral Harry had attended was his father's and Cassandra's is... different. No one had wanted to say what happened to his father; no one knows what really happened to Cassandra. He barely makes it through the door, Campbell at his shoulder and the little bag of pills he'd passed him at the door in Harry's pocket, when Will intercepts them. 

Harry doesn't want a scene, doesn't really want to be here at all, but he can't go, not when he can see the back of Allie's head up in the first pew, and he knows what it's like to be sitting up there waiting to bury someone you love and not understand why. To know you might not ever understand why. 

Allie is simultaneously fragile and hard as steel, one for a moment, the other the next. Harry doesn't understand it, how she can bear to wear her feelings to blatantly on her face, how she survives without a protective shell to keep her safe. He could never do that. She doesn't burrow down inside herself, she  _ burns _ . He almost can't even watch it. Harry doesn't know what he is, but he knows Allie is something else entirely. 

By the time Kelly shows up at his house, he's two pills deep, and safely far away from everyone and everything. It's something different, this time, little round pills instead of the long ones, but Harry hadn't asked what and Campbell hadn't volunteered the information either. It doesn't really matter. Nothing can touch him here, not even his own dark thoughts. Harry feels wide open in the sunlight by the pool, like his insides could be showing, but somehow nowhere close to vulnerable. He doesn't have organs behind his ribs, instead he has a void, a mass of darkness, a black hole that takes and takes and gives nothing back .

He hadn't expected to see Kelly. When she'd walked out his house yesterday it had felt like an ending, the kind where she won't even look at him for weeks. But here she is, seeking him out. She's oddly quiet, standing over him with a look he doesn't know, and he'd think he were hallucinating if she weren't blocking his sunlight. 

“I haven't seen you. I- I wanted to talk to you at the funeral, but everything's just so crazy,” Harry says, finally, when it's clear she's not going to start this conversation. Kelly doesn't say anything, just looks him over with this unreadable expression that doesn't feel like her. Harry wonders what she sees, if it's just a pool full of crap and he, a mess right with it. “I know it looks bad, but it still feels nice.” 

Kelly takes a seat next to him, slow, like she's gearing up for something, and if he didn't feel so distant from himself, he might be afraid of what that means. “I need to ask you something.” 

Harry sits up; it's an effort, like moving through molasses. “Okay.” 

“Did you have  _ anything _ to do with it?” 

“With what?” He knows what. He knows, but it's hard to comprehend that Kelly is asking him that. Kelly. He'd believe it from almost anyone else. Hell, Will had practically accused him to his face, but that's different. People see what they want to see, and Harry and Cassandra's blatant dislike of each other has always been well known. But Kelly... She knows him better than that, right? He'd thought so. But it's hard to feel sure of anything right now. It's so hard to think like this, when nothing seems to be moving at the proper speed, and she's just looking at him, waiting for an answer. He doesn't know why he can't just find the word 'no.'

“With  _ what _ ?” He wants Kelly to say it, wants to hear it come out of her mouth, that she believes the worst of him, just like everybody else. And still, she says nothing at all. 

“Are you seriously asking me that?” The anger he feels is hard to grasp, sliding through his fingers like oil, slick but lingering, leaving an unpleasant residue behind. Harry can't sustain much of anything but disbelief and a distinct lack of reality, but that kind of anger doesn't quite slide all the way off. “Fuck you.” 

“That's not an answer.” 

“You know me. Yeah? We know each other.”  _ Say no _ , Harry thinks to himself,  _ just tell her no. _ But it's her wording that's got him tripped up, sending him stumbling over it in a way that wouldn't happen if he were thinking clearly. As it is, all he can hear is the way she'd said it, on repeat in his mind,  _ did you have  _ _ **anything** _ _ to do with it? _ And he doesn't know the answer to that any more than she does. He's afraid, if he looks closely, he might find the answer is  _ yes _ . He cannot afford to look closely. 

“Not an answer.” Kelly's disappointment in him is palpable. She takes another moment, studying him, quiet. “Are you high?” 

“No.” This lie comes easy. “No, I'm just tired.” For a moment, he thinks she might call him out on it, almost wants her to, but she doesn't. She wants to believe him. It's easier. They remind him so much of his parents for a second that he wants to throw up. 

“People are scared shitless. They're placing bets on who did it and there's a lot of money on you, Harry.” It's not funny. Harry knows this, that absolutely nothing about any of this is funny, but the laugh bubbles up the back of his throat anyway, hysterical and tired and low. This conversation is really killing his high.

“Well,  _ those _ people are gonna lose all their fucking money.” And what does Harry care about what any of those people think? He didn't kill Cassandra, so they can't prove he did. But he can't shake that little voice in the back of his head whispering that he might carry some of the blame. 

* * *

Allie's not there when he wakes up. The first morning, he thinks he just missed her, but then on the second he comes to a new conclusion; she isn't sleeping. You can't wake up with someone if you never go to sleep in the first place. And Harry's been restless enough that he would have known if she had been here. She hasn't. He's almost certain of that. If he were braver, he might go looking for her. But what for? They're not friends, not really. She doesn't want to be seen with him. But then... they're  _ something _ . Aren't they? Don't they have to be, if only by circumstance?

It's just... It's actually a little bit of a relief that he doesn't have to see Allie. Harry doesn't know what he'd say to her. He's not sure he could look her in the eyes, not when everyone knows how he felt about Cassandra. Not with the suspicions he's got swirling at the back of his mind. It's best if he just keeps his head down, Harry decides. He doesn't actually know what happened to Cassandra; he doesn't know who killed her; he doesn't know that it has absolutely anything to do with him at all. Most of the time, he's too tired to think about it, anyway. When he can't stop thinking about it, he takes one of Campbell's pills. Harry doesn't have anything left of his own, not his mom's Xanax or his own Zoloft, or anything of his dad's meds that his mother thought he didn't know she locked away with his Rolexes. It makes the days blur together.

At some point, the guard comes for his guns. As far as Harry knows, there aren't any in the house anymore, not unless one of the strangers now living there brought one with them. Which is absolutely a possibility, but Harry'd be the last person to ask about it. He doesn't interact with them anymore than he has to. Mickey is pretty much the only one who ever even tries to talk to him. But the guard doesn't believe him when he tells them he doesn't own a gun.

“Your dad had a gun safe, I've seen it,” Jason responds, stubborn. He really is a fucking idiot, isn't he? It should probably hurt, but it doesn't. Mostly, Harry feels annoyed that it looks like he's going to have to spell it out for them. 

“Yeah,” Harry says, slow, wondering if the very big elephant in the room is ever going to sink in. “He  _ did _ .” 

He sees it when the realization settles over Luke's face, because it's swiftly followed by embarrassment, and there's something a little vicious and very satisfying to watch the way his cheeks go a little pink, and he can't meet Harry's eyes. 

“So where's the gun?” Jason demands, brow furrowed, and jaw set. Harry waits. Luke puts a hand on Jason's shoulder before Harry decides to finally answer and pulls him a few steps away. He can't hear most of what's said, but he thinks he catches the words  _ 'shot himself' _ and Jason looks distinctly uncomfortable by the time they turn back around. 

Harry doesn't say anything at all. Let them squirm. They're here in  _ his _ house accusing him of something and dragging up bad memories. Luke murmurs something about letting them know if he sees anyone with any guns, as if people are just walking around in Harry's house open carry (as if he leaves his room enough to see them if they do), and then they go, shuffling their feet and talking quietly and definitely not looking back. 

In his wildest dreams, in that dark place in the back of his mind that wonders if what he said about Cassandra actually came to life, Harry never expects anyone to confess  _ to him _ . It's just... why would anyone ever do that? Despite Gordie collecting all the guns he can find in town, Harry doesn't think there's any way they'll find Cassandra's killer without witnesses. They just don't have the knowledge or the access to the technology to do so, no matter what Gordie says. It's a mystery he doesn't really expect them solve, and a little piece of him hopes they won't. He doesn't want to know. 

So even though Harry gets a little sick to his stomach every time he sees the guys who'd been in his backyard the night of prom, who he knows heard what he said and the ugly things he'd thought, he doesn't stop showing up when one of them invites him to have coffee with them. Harry's pretty sure he only gets asked along because there's some lingering traces of Harry's high school popularity and he's one of the only people left in town who knows how to properly work an espresso machine. But it doesn't matter, because he only goes because it helps him maintain some semblance of normalcy, not because he thinks those guys are his friends. If he knew it was going to end with Greg Dewey leaning over the counter and saying to him, “Yeah, but I mean, even if they figure out who did it it's not like they're gonna do anything about it, right?” he would have stayed in bed. The thing is, when Dewey first says it, Harry doesn't even realize where the conversation is going. Probably because it's Dewey, and he's about as intimidating as a mayfly. 

“Mmmm, yeah, maybe they should. I mean I don't love some unhinged weirdo running around shooting people.” Harry's only half focused on the conversation, more focused on the promise of a fresh cup of coffee and that little moment of bliss when the caffeine hits him and for just one split second, the world rights itself. 

“How are they a weirdo?” 

“Because they fucking shot someone.” He still doesn't get it, why Dewey's looking put out by his words when they're just the obvious fucking answer. Sure, Harry had said shit, but those had just been words, drunk words, surely anyone in the light of day understands he's not going to condone a fucking murder. Maybe half the town thinks Harry pulled the trigger, but if he did, he'd never be stupid enough to tell Dewey. And if he didn't, which he  _ didn't _ because Harry knows he can be an asshole sometimes but he's not a goddamn murderer, then why would he ever think or say that what happened is okay?

“Well, not just someone, right? It was Cassandra. I mean the way I look at it, they did us all a favor. They're a hero.” Harry finally gets it. And oh, he wishes he didn't. Dread slithers into his veins.

“How the fuck are they a hero?”  _ No, no, no _ , his mind is screaming,  _ don't tell me, I don't want to know.  _ But it's too late to turn back now, and Dewey's looking at him, serious and maybe a little proud and Harry thinks he might actually vomit all over the counter. 

“Cassandra was the problem, right? Said we were the enemy. Someone had to teach that cunt who was boss. I finally got you some peace and quiet like you wanted. The least I could get is a 'thank you'.” 

Peace and quiet.  _ At least she'd be dead. And finally we'd have some quiet. _ Harry's words. They've got blood on them now. And fuck, fuck, fuck, he didn't want to know this; he never wanted to know this. It is knowledge he can never give back. It's on his shoulders now, and he can already feel it, a new weight settling into his bones, pulling him down. Harry swallows the raw emotion at the back of his throat, shrugs his shoulders at Dewey, and pretends it doesn't matter. 

“I guess that's one way to look at it.” Harry hopes no one sees his hands shaking.

He calls Kelly. And then he takes two of Campbell's pills so that he won't be too scared to face her when she arrives. One day, Harry thinks, he going to have to figure out how not to call Kelly in a crisis. One day, she probably will just stop showing up. He's not ready for that. 

She arrives in her gym clothes with her gym bag, cheeks still pink and her hair falling out her ponytail and Harry's reminded for the first time in a long while that she's not perfect. It only serves to make him miss her more, the her he felt like he could tell things and she wouldn't look at him like every word out his mouth is a mistake. 

“This better be important. Unlike a lot lazy asses I'm still doing my job and my shift starts in twenty minutes-” 

“Dewey did it.” It tumbles out of his mouth of its own accord, Harry couldn't stop it if he wanted to. The words have been pressing at his lips for the past two hours, trying to escape. He's sitting on the floor, looking up at Kelly standing over him, and he's just said something that will change everything and she doesn't realize it yet.

“Did what?” 

“I think... Dewey killed Cassandra.”

Kelly blinks at him, brow furrowing. “What are you talking about? Why would you think that?” 

“Because he fucking told me.” Harry shoves himself to his feet, too agitated to sit still any longer. “Dewey, he basically confessed that he shot Cassandra.” 

“We're talking about Dewey, right? Like the short, pale kid that  _ nobody _ talks to?” 

“Yes! Greg Dewey.” 

“Why the hell would he wanna kill Cassandra?” That's not a question that Harry's prepared to answer. He knows it's deeper than just some kid hearing Harry run his mouth and acting on it, there's something much darker going on with Dewey than  _ that _ , but it's part of it, a piece in the puzzle, a critical one. 

“Who knows? The kid's fucked up. He's fucking batshit.” 

Kelly looks at him for a long moment, and Harry can see her processing, see her trying to make a connection he does not want her, or anyone, to ever make. “Why would he tell you?” 

“I don't know.” Harry's still a very good liar, and if it were anyone but Kelly, he thinks that might have been the end of it. 

“That's not a good answer.” 

“Wh-what do you want? I just told you he's completely fucking crazy.” He isn't telling Kelly about this to be interrogated, he's telling her because... Because he has to. Because telling someone is the only option here, right? This isn't the sort of thing you just pretend you never heard.

“Well then you need to say something.” 

“Nah, fuck that.” Isn't that what he's doing right now? He's telling  _ her _ , so he doesn't have to face Allie or Gordie or Will or anyone else.  _ Hiding again _ , he thinks to himself, before he can silence that intrusive little voice. 

“You need to turn him in, you need to tell them-” 

“No, are you insane? They're already looking for a reason to make this all my fault.” Harry cannot be the only one who sees how bad this looks for him. Maybe she just doesn't care. No one really does anymore. 

“He's dangerous, Harry. And if you don't tell them and something else happens, then that's on you.” 

Kelly leaves him with this statement hanging in the air, too loud and true for him to ignore. Harry wishes he were just a little worse, or a lot better. He sinks back to the floor, leans his head back against his mattress and fights a war within himself. He sits there for a long time after Kelly leaves. He thinks about the last time he can remember seeing Cassandra, shiny dress, hair up. He'd felt that familiar wave of annoyance, a little tamer because he'd been high. He's not like everyone else, he isn't going to lie and pretend to himself that he liked Cassandra when he didn't. But she didn't deserve to die. He thinks of Allie, looking back at him over her shoulder, haloed in sunlight. She deserves her answers. When his heart rate slows enough that he doesn't feel like he's about to jump out of his skin, Harry makes himself get up. One foot in front of the other. He goes to talk to Gordie. 

* * *

Harry spirals. He calls Campbell in the middle of the night for a refill when he runs out of pills and the world starts closing in on him, threatening to swallow him whole. 

Campbell's not too thrilled about the hour. “Next time you want something, business hours, okay?” 

“Yeah, sorry man.” Harry finds himself mumbling excuses, fumbling with the bag, hands unsteady. There are only five pills inside. The number makes a little ember of fear blossom behind his sternum. It's not enough.

“Come on, Campbell, this is enough for like two days. I might as well just go to the fucking pharmacy myself.”

“I think you'll find the cupboards a little bare.” Campbell's smile is smug. “Besides, you need to pace it.” 

“I'm not a fucking lightweight, okay?! I know how much I need!” The anger is so sudden and so vicious, Harry's almost scared of himself. Campbell isn't.

“Okay, not so loud.” 

“What? Why? You think we're gonna get in trouble? Our parents can't fucking hear-  _ No one _ can fucking hear us, man!” He knows there's a word for what's thrumming in his veins, but it takes him a moment to label it as desperation. It's followed quickly by shame. He's better than this. Or he used to be. Maybe he's not, anymore. 

“You need to be smart, Harry. You need to be smarter than this.” 

“I'm not a fucking child.” 

“Then don't act like one.” Campbell watches him, like he's waiting to see if Harry's done yelling. When it becomes clear he is, the satisfied smile reappears. “And pull yourself together, man, okay?” 

It's shouldn't be a surprise that they want him to testify, but somehow, Harry doesn't see it coming. He can't very well say no, he's come this far. Sometimes he wonders how the hell he ended up here. He's not sure he'll ever be able to make peace with all of this, with his role in it, but this deep in now, he feels like he has to try. Maybe one day he'll forgive himself. Allie never will. Harry isn't sure why that matters so much to him. 

He's a little high at the trial. He hopes no one can tell, but he doesn't think he could sit up there in front of everyone feeling like he does without something to get him through it. Campbell had been all too happy to oblige him this time. Harry's not an idiot, he already knows what Campbell's getting out of this, he just figured it out a little late. He's not sure what he's going to want in return, but he has no doubt Campbell is someone who collects on his debts. If he weren't spending as much time as possible self medicating, he might find it in himself to worry about it, but with liquid courage and prescription calm, he can't quite do it.

Harry has no idea what he says sitting up there. Not a clue. It passes in a blur, Helena and Gordie's faces sliding in and out of focus. He does his best not to look at Allie. He tries not to think about how he's never going to get her smiles again. Harry answers what he's asked, clings to the task of keeping himself present and upright and hopefully fooling everyone. When they're done with him, he sits back in a pew and lets his mind drift. He remembers almost nothing else about the trial except that it ends with Dewey yelling. 

And Allie's face. The hard set of her jaw and soft vulnerability of her eyes, everything at odds with each other. She looks like she needs to sleep. God, Harry wishes he were asleep. When he's asleep, he doesn't have to think about any of it. From the expression on Allie's face, he thinks she might know exactly how that feels. 

Harry doesn't go home after the trial. Instead he walks, and walks, up and down the familiar streets, past houses with yawning dark windows, looking abandoned even though it's only been a few weeks. Harry feels like that sometimes, dark and empty, abandoned. 

He doesn't remember making the decision to go to Allie's house. He's just there, and he thinks it must have been hours now, because he can't really feel his toes and the sun is starting to set. He doesn't even register who answers the door, but follows some invisible pull in his chest; it leads him to her. It's only when he sees her, looking as lost as he feels, that Harry knows why he came here. 

But she won't look at him, tears in her eyes, and he can't find the words he meant to say. He knows they're there, trapped under his tongue, things he feels like he owes her, but she interrupts them, tells him to go, her voice soft and cold and even though his hands are shaking and that feeling in his chest is screaming at him to stay, if that's what she wants, he guesses he owes that to her. He leaves, because she asked him to, because that means it's the right thing to do, right? It doesn't feel like it.

He tries again in the morning, when he wakes up to Allie sitting up, shoulders hunched, comforter clutched in her fists, even though he knows he's not anywhere close to sober, still fucked up from last night. 

“Allie.” She acts as if she doesn't hear him, standing and crossing to his dresser. There's something determined about the set of her shoulders. He launches his next attempt when she sits back down on the bed to tie her shoes. 

“Allie.” No response. She stands up when she's done with her laces, walks across the room to the door, and closes it behind her, composed, quiet, like he doesn't even exist. He half wonders if he does, or he's just faded into non-existence entirely. He's oddly comforted by the idea. 

Harry rolls onto his side, taking deep breaths until the room stops spinning, and stretches his hand out to the other side of the bed. It's still warm where Allie had been, like she's a ghost too. 

His door slams open so hard that the doorknob cracks into the wall, Allie storming back in. He knows it's her even though he doesn't look, because there's no one else it would be, and he can feel the energy of her, like she's brought an electric storm with her, furious suddenly. Harry wonders if she was drawn back here by the same inexplicable force that had guided his steps to her house last night, compulsive, out of his control. If she was, she seems pissed about it. 

“Come on, get up, we need to talk.” 

He doesn't want to, but he feels compelled by her words, so he gets out of bed slow, unsteady. The ground tilts under his feet, and he's not sure how it happens, but he finds himself sitting again. His stomach turns over. Harry puts his head in his hands and tries to breathe through it. 

“Can't,” he says.

“What, are you drunk right now?”

“Something like that.” Yes, among other things. 

“Well, sorry, but you don't get to pick the time for this, it's happening now.” 

“What is?” Harry feels as if he's watching this exchange, rather than participating in it, can't seem to figure out how to put anything he feels into his words. They come out flat. He feels that, flattened. 

“You're going to tell me exactly what happened. What did you say, Harry? What  _ exactly _ did you say that would make Dewey think you actually wanted Cassandra dead?” 

Harry pulls his knees up to his chest. This time, when he feels small, he knows he deserves it. “I don't want you to know that, Allie.”

“Tough shit. You owe it to me now, because whatever it was, it didn't stay just words. It got my sister killed. And I want to know what it was.”

He closes his eyes. He still doesn't remember all of it, lost to the haze of alcohol and drugs. He swallows the bile at the back of his throat and tells her what he does remember, even the words that damn him. The ones that haunt him, and probably always will.  _ At least she'd be dead. And finally we'd have some quiet. _

When he opens his eyes, Allie has tears on her cheeks. She looks like if she reached out and touched him, she'd burn him alive. 

“Here's how it's going to work,” her words are precise, but with the tiniest tremor, “Neither of us have any say about me waking up here, but that is  _ all _ it is. We're not friends. We're not anything. And no one else finds out about it. Got it?”

For a split second, Harry feels something other than a yawning darkness in his chest, a flash of irritation. He wants to say,  _ how is that different from before? _ Because Allie's never acted like he's anything but a regret. The words make it to the tip of his tongue, but he bites them back. 

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Great. And you're going to tell me what you were going to say.” 

“What I was going to say when?” He's losing the threads of the conversation now, his head starting to hurt.

“You came my house, you wanted to say something.”

It feels foolish now. “It doesn't matter. It didn't then, and it doesn't now.”

“I want hear it anyway.” Allie's tone leaves no room for argument.

“I didn't mean it.” He wishes he could make her believe it, even if it does no good. “I never actually meant it. And I didn't want her dead. If I could take it back, I would. But like I said, it doesn't matter.”

“You're right,” Allie says, and there's no mercy in her eyes. “That doesn't matter.”

* * *

Harry's been like this before. It's sort of hazy, but he remembers. The summer he turned thirteen he spent it with the blinds closed, hiding under his comforter, feeling like every bit of him was too heavy to lift, like any sort of coherent time had ceased to exist, a little like he'd ceased to exist. His mom had told everyone Harry was away at summer camp and his dad preferred to pretend that was the truth, rather than face his son sequestered away in his room. His mother had hauled him upright for visits from Dr. Tsapenko and the occasional meal, but otherwise she'd backed off.

It had only been Kitty who refused to tiptoe around him. Five years old, rambunctious, and entirely used to getting her way, Kitty was unafraid to ask him for things. She'd secret him cookies from the kitchen, the chocolate mint ones his mom tried to hide away and keep to herself. She'd jump on his bed and beg him to braid her hair, big brown eyes and a satisfied smile when he inevitably gave in. They built blanket forts in his bedroom and Kitty would wrinkle her nose and tell him to take a shower. When she asked, he always listened. Sometimes, in the middle of the afternoon, when the world would catch up with her little body, Kitty would crawl under his comforter with sleepy yawns and more often than not slightly sticky fingers, and fall asleep right there next to him.

On the evening before Harry's first day of 8th grade, when he knew he'd have to get up in the morning and face everyone he hadn't seen all summer, he'd meticulously braided a perfect french braid into Kitty's dark hair, murmuring lowly what he could remember about the princess in Kitty's favorite fairytale, and then she'd fallen asleep on his chest, her fingers curled into the front of his shirt.

He'd sat there a long time, watching the light change outside his window, Kitty warm against his chest, and his new bottle of pills from Dr. Tsapenko tucked in his bedside drawer, trying to gather enough courage to face the next day.

“Harry?” Kitty's voice was small, still sleepy.

“What's up, Kitty-kat?”

“I know why you're sad.”

Harry had been quiet for a long moment. “You do?”

“Yep.” Kitty leaned away from him to look him in the eyes, very serious. Harry noted, absently, that she was starting to get a light smattering of freckles across her nose. “It's because of Dad.”

“What?”

“I heard Mama telling Holly's mom that you have Dad's....” Kitty's face scrunched up with effort of reproducing a word she didn't know. “Jen-... jen something.”

“Genetics?” Harry asked, though inside his blood was boiling. How many people had his mother been telling about all this? It wasn't her business, it wasn't hers to tell.

“Yeah. That. So you should just give it back,” Kitty said simply, beaming up at him, proud. Harry hadn't known what to say, so he'd pressed a kiss to Kitty's hair, swallowed down his anger at his mother, and just whispered. “Thanks, Kitty.”

He'd meant to confront his mother that night, once Kitty was in bed and not around to hear them arguing. His dad has been out of town for the past week, some high powered business deal in China, and so it would be just him and his mom and the impending presence of school in the morning, like a dark cloud hovering over his head.

By the time he'd found her, however, sitting in the big leather chair in his father's office, Harry's mother was at least two glasses of wine deep, and crying. Harry had stood in the doorway to his father's office, stunned, and unsure how to process his put together mother with her hair falling out of her chignon and her knuckles white around the stem of her wineglass.

“Mom?”

Her eyes had focused on him slowly, like it took a lot of effort. “Your father's not in China,” is what she'd said.

Harry had been frozen on the spot. The truth was there, he could feel it looming, and everything in him screamed to leave before it arrived, but he couldn't make his feet work. Couldn't stop himself from asking. “Where is he?”

His mother had laughed, harsh and watery. “Don't be an idiot, Harry.” She'd drained the wine glass and set it down on the desk in front of her so sharply, Harry thought it might shatter. The truth about his father unspoken in its arrival, but unmistakable all the same.

Harry opened his mouth to ask something, what this means for them, if they're going to get a divorce, but the words never got a chance to come out, because before he could even begin to put a voice to them, his mother had looked him dead in the eyes. Something wounded and mean lurked there.

“You're just like him.”

It sunk in slow, an accusation that would settle in his bones and ache for years. Harry had stood there, lost and scared and hurt and angry, and then he'd fled, back to his room, back to his comforter, back to that bottle of pills in his bedside drawer.

In the morning, Harry would be back at school, smiling and laughing like he means it, a little fuzzy from his pills. He'd prank Jason with Luke, and play flag football after lunch, and Cassandra Pressman would make a sneering comment about his rich boy camp he'd been at all summer that would make him feel like every bit the fraud he is and he'd snap something back at her about her stupid haircut, and she'd storm away with her nose in the air and her little sister Allie on her heels. But before all that, he'd sit on the smooth leather seat in the front of his mother's Lexus and stare at his shoes, while the silence between them almost suffocates him. She'd grip the steering wheel like a lifeline and Harry would know that she remembers exactly what she said to him the night before. And they'll never talk about it or the truth about his father ever again.

* * *

Harry can't tell the mornings apart anymore. It's always the same. He wakes up, sometimes fuzzy, sometimes not so much. Allie's alarm goes off, 5 am, and she quietly leaves the bed. She hasn't spoken to him in weeks, maybe longer, he's lost track of time. He doesn't have any expectation that this will change. She has no reason to thaw towards him. Then, one morning, she sits up, turns off her alarm, and just sits there. After what feels like hours to Harry, but can't be more than fifteen minutes, she lies back down. He feels the dip of the bed next to him, her warmth close enough it's like a shadow of touching her. 

“Are you awake?” she asks. 

“Yeah.” He's not sure how he gets the word out, confused and a little terrified; it's the most raw emotion he's felt in days. And all she had to do was speak to him. 

That's the beginning of it. He doesn't understand what she's doing, but inevitably, each morning, after her alarm's gone off, she'll lie there and talk to him. Sometimes it's about nothing, how there's supposed to be rain this week, and Sam's bike tires have gone flat and he hasn't been able to find good replacements. But she talks about other things too, about how Cassandra had a heart transplant, something Harry never knew, and spending her childhood in and out of hospital waiting rooms. She talks about the first time she met Will, and about how he dared her to climb a tree and she got stuck up there. She just talks.

“Why are you doing this, Allie?” It takes him weeks to muster up the courage to ask. He's afraid she might stop. But he doesn't understand this, doesn't get why she told him they're nothing and never will be, but she tells him what feels like everything. 

“What?” 

“You know what. Why are you talking to me? What do you  _ want _ ?” She has to want something, has to be  _ getting _ something here, but he's thought about it day in and out and hasn't figured it out yet. 

“I want to say something really fucked up.” He can almost taste the relief in her voice, like she's been waiting for him to ask. 

“Okay.” 

“I've never been as mad at you as I should be. And that's really selfish of me. I should hate you. I really want to hate you. I think... in the beginning, you were the only person who saw me next to Cassandra and actually liked me better. For real actually thought I was better in some way. No one's ever liked me more than her. And that was okay because she  _ was _ better than me, she always was, but it made me feel special, that you felt that way, that to someone I was the preferable choice. And... sometimes I think I'm more angry that this whole mess took that away from me than I am for what you said. And that's fucked up.”

_ She was never better than you _ , are the words that Harry wants to say, but knows he can't. Not with his history with Cassandra, with his role in her death. Allie wouldn't believe him anyway. Harry understands more of it now, after all she's told him, though he's not sure she does. Allie had  _ had _ to make herself small, to not take up too much space or time, had to be the child who didn't need anything, because there had only been so much time and attention from their parents to be given, and Cassandra had  _ needed _ it back then. What had been temporary circumstances had become a pattern, and even if no one meant to make her feel like that, Allie internalized it to the point where all she could see was her sister as better, more deserving. He suspects she's never realized that. 

Harry touches her hand. He doesn't know where the courage comes from, swift but fleeting. Allie's breath catches a little, but she doesn't pull her hand away, not even when he slides his fingers between hers, heart in his throat. He can't remember the last time he touched someone. 

“Even now, God, I'm only in charge because I'm as close as anyone can get to her. It's not because anyone actually wants me.” A tear slips from the corner of her eye, slides down her cheek and into her hair. “I can't  _ say _ that, I can't even say that to anyone, I can't complain about it because she  _ died _ . And what am I complaining about right? I'm not the one who got shot.”

Everything slides suddenly into focus.  _ This _ is why she started speaking to him again. He understands now. She's never done or said anything as terrible as he has; who would he be to judge her? 

“Except to me.”

“What?” 

“You can say that to me. You just said it to me. And you know you can, because there's nothing you can say that can have worse consequences than what I said. We both know that.” 

Allie's quiet for a long time after that. Harry almost thinks she's done talking, but he doesn't mind so much because she's still holding his hand. 

“I told Cassandra about us.” It's possibly the last thing he ever expected her to say. Harry's so surprised he unintentionally squeezes her hand. Why would she do that? If there was one single person she had wanted to keep this from, it was her sister.

“Yeah?” he croaks, finally, when he finds his voice. 

“Yeah. Right before prom. Do you think I was telling my sister about us at the exact same time that you were saying shit about how we'd all be better off if she were just dead?” Her words knock the air right out of his lungs. He doesn't want to think about that. Does it do her any good to think about that? He's got emotional whiplash from this conversation. 

“I don't know.” Harry isn't sure he can do this, whatever this is. He's sorry, he doesn't know if he'll ever get to  _ not _ feel sorry, but he needs Allie to tell him what she wants from him, whether that's something or nothing at all, because right now, he has no idea. “But if you're gonna hate me for it, Allie, you should just go ahead and hate me. It would be easier. For both of us.”

She lets out a little shaky exhale. “I don't know how to hate you.” 

Harry wonders how that can be. It's easy, he wants to say, if she doesn't already, all she needs to do is crack open his ribs, see that dark void yawning underneath, that place he falls into. But Allie isn't like him, even her darkest moods and thoughts are full of fire, casting light. Allie burns things down, she doesn't swallow them up. 

He tells her the truth, one he's known for a long time. “I do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey loves, 
> 
> so um.... writing Harry has been a lot darker than I ever really expected it to be. I mean, I KNEW his story was a tough one, but I hadn't really sunk fully into where I felt his headspace was until I started writing this. This chapter in particular took a lot of emotional energy out of me. I think, even though it's technically not Harry's "lowest point" it's the lowest point truly between Harry and Allie in this fic, and that was A LOT to write tbh. I hope you all think I did it justice. this was a difficult one for me. I'm not sure if it's any good at this point, tbh. 
> 
> p.s. Harry has this ring he wears on his pinky & I've been so tempted to write in some sort of meaning to it while working on this one (I never really thought to with Allie's POV because Harry doesn't open up much in it), but I'm really hoping they'll address it in season 2 & I want to be able to include it's “canon” meaning if it's good. I'm wondering if it has something to do with his sister or his father.
> 
> p.p.s. I forgot a scene that needed to be in chapter 2 when I first posted it, so I updated the chapter (08.05.19) to include it. since this is a companion piece, assuming you've read Allie's POV you won't MISS anything without it, but I just forgot to put it in because the timeline was a mess in my head. anyway, it's Harry's POV of giving Allie the hockey trophy, and it's in there now. sorry! 
> 
> me: Harry's POV is gonna be significantly shorter than Allie's  
also me: writes 2k more words for the first 3 chapters of Harry's POV than Allie's....


	4. If We Never Knew October

Almost everything leading up to Thanksgiving is a blur. Almost. There are moments of clarity, so sharp they're almost painful, but they are few and far between. Most of them come with Allie. She's always there in the morning. Sometimes he wakes up with his arms around her, her body nestled against his. Other times, she's a warm presence just a few inches away. He has to stop himself from chasing that warmth. He craves it, human contact. It's been weeks since anyone touched him on purpose. He never knew how much you could miss that.

“Do you ever think about how things would be different if you hadn't said it?” Allie asks him, one morning. Eventually, she always seems to end up here. She can't seem to walk away from the subject. He thinks she knows that he doesn't want to talk about it. But she also seems to know that he will, because it's her asking, because he'll always owe that to her. He'll always talk about it, if she asks. But he won't lie to her.

“No.”

“No?” There's surprise in her voice, maybe a little irritation too. He doesn't have the energy to give her the answer she wants.

“It would just make it worse, in the end. Pretending doesn't make it feel any better.” Harry knows this better than anyone. Years and years of pretending so hard, pushing everything out, flashing smiles when he wants to scream. It's never made a single thing feel any better. He's too tired for all of that anymore. There's no point.

Allie turns her head, and Harry can feel her eyes, like the gentlest pressure against his cheek. He doesn't look at her, so she doesn't see her expression when she says, “Sometimes I think about it. Cassandra would still be here. I wouldn't be in charge.”

“Does it make you feel better?”

“No,” Allie admits. He didn't think so. It's just highlighting more things she's lost, not just her sister, but everything else that could have been, for her, maybe for him. He's not sure if he meant enough to her to actually register. But oh, how things would be different for him if he hadn't gotten drunk and said the wrong thing to the absolute wrong person. He could have changed everything. And even when he said it, he knew- not that it would spiral the way it did, but that it was wrong, that it made something heavy settle in his stomach, even while his blood was roaring approval. It almost makes it worse. Because Harry wasn't ignorant or naïve. He knew every word that had passed his lips were their own kind of poison, and he hadn't stopped himself; he'd relished it.

“Sometimes,” he begins, and he's not sure he wants to tell her this, but he's already started, so he feels like he has to finish, “it's like I'm outside myself, watching myself say and do things I know I shouldn't, and I don't even know why.”

Allie's quiet next to him. Quiet and warm. “That doesn't make it okay, Harry.”

“I know,” he says softly. In his memory he's by the pool, anger eating away at his chest, hate on the tip of his tongue. “I know. And then I do it anyway.”

* * *

The whole month of October is hazy. Harry stumbles through it, feeling a step behind in his own life. It's all work shifts and blisters on his palms and sitting in painfully bright light of the church and then his bed and the pills. Always back to his bed. He isn't sure when he just stops getting up.

Harry doesn't make an active decision to skip his first shift of work, or his second, or any of them, really. He just doesn't see any point in rallying the massive amount of energy it would take to pull himself out of bed. What is he getting up for? Who would even notice if he's gone?

He measures his days only by Allie's morning appearances. She's there, then she isn't. She talks; he doesn't. Harry isn't sure Allie even notices. He's not her friend, she's made that very clear. He's not anything, just a body in a bed that doesn't have enough moral superiority to judge her. He's a means to an end. She probably prefers him like this, too exhausted to talk back. That's not what she wants from him. She doesn't want _anything_ from him, Harry reminds himself. She's taking advantage of an unfortunate set of circumstances that force her into his presence. He supposes, after everything, it's what he deserves.

The guard finally come for him when he's missed enough work that someone bothered to report it. Harry isn't entirely sure how long it's been, a couple of weeks, at least. Two weeks or so, and his absence has finally registered with _someone_. They're probably mostly just annoyed they've been short a pair of hands. They want him punished. Harry doesn't really care. He's not going back to work.

“'Sup man?” Harry recognizes Jason's voice, even though he doesn't look at him. “Gretchen says you haven't been at work in a couple days.” Gretchen. Well, it shouldn't be a shock, should it? She never did like him much, probably got upset that he was 'getting away' with something. It's been a lot longer than a couple of days. Or he think so, anyway.

“Go away.” Harry's voice is a croak in the back of his throat, one he doesn't even recognize as himself. When was the last time he spoke? He can't remember.  
“Seriously, man? You can't just ditch work. They're gonna start docking your rations.”

That doesn't matter. He hasn't been eating them anyway. He's stockpiled a surplus, too tired to get out of bed to make himself anything to eat. A handful of chips here, a granola bar there, Harry has no idea when he last ate an actual meal.

“We'll have to tell Allie.” Of course they will. But he knows what they don't- if Allie cared to know about what a mess he's become, if she'd bothered to look closely, she'd already know.

“I don't care.”

“You sure about that?” He isn't. They can take the rations. They can threaten him with punishment. He still doesn't really want it brought to Allie's attention. But he says nothing. If it's a choice between facing Allie or figuring out how to get out of bed, then it's not really a choice. Harry rolls over and presses his face into his pillow. It smells like Allie's shampoo. Maybe, if he falls asleep, he'll wake up anywhere else.

They bring Allie. He wishes they wouldn't. It's not as if he's been hiding from her, but Harry doesn't want her pity. He doesn't want her to pretend that she cares when she's already told him she doesn't. Or doesn't want to. He doesn't want her here because she feels responsible for everyone. It won't do good for either of them.

“Are you okay?” It's almost worse that it sounds like she means it, like _he _means something.

“I don't want to see anyone.” Harry almost swallows the next words, but instead he tells the truth. “Especially you.”

She's quiet for a moment, still a presence hovering at the edges of awareness, but quiet. He thinks she might just leave. Why shouldn't she? She came here, she can say she tried.

“You don't have to be ashamed.” Allie's words are soft, not what he was expecting. She's hardly ever truly soft. “I think we know each other pretty well. Unless you forgot about the last time I was in this room.”

He hasn't. He'd woken that morning, Allie's head on his chest, his arms banded around her. She'd been so warm. For a moment, he'd basked in the feeling of another person, of skin touching skin, of safety. It had lasted two breaths, ten, he can't be sure, then Allie had rolled away from him, blinking her eyes open, and he'd let her go. It is what it is, him and Allie.

The mornings don't count. They both know that. It's how any of this works.

“This is different.”

“I get it. Okay, I get it. After Cassandra died, I didn't want to do anything. I mean, fuck people. Fuck food. Fuck everything. I wanted to just lay in bed and never get out.” For a moment, Harry wants to say something cruel, feels the words crowding inside his mouth, anxious to come out, but for once in his life, he swallows them down. She doesn't get it. She doesn't get _this_. Harry doesn't even get it. He's spent years trying to _get it_. To understand why he finds himself so tired and heavy and empty and too full all at once. Like the weight of everything inside his chest is holding him down, and simultaneously like he's hollowed out from the inside. He's spent years terrified of that dark angry place in his chest that takes and takes and gives nothing back.

“And then you got up. Good for you.” She got up. Her sister died, and she got back up. He's never pretended to be as strong as she is.

“Because I had no choice.” Allie's voice wavers, a note of fear lingering in the air. “And honestly, neither do you. You have to get back up, because if I let you sink I make it okay for other people to do that too and that's suicide.” Sometimes, Harry thinks, he can't see what would be so bad about that. It sounds easier. If he's not here, isn't that easier for everyone? It seems easier for him.

“You have to get up.” He can hear in her voice that she's upset- at him, for him, at this whole goddamn mess? He doesn't know. “You have to get up and get back to work.”

Allie's fingers grasp his wrist, sudden, warm, intentional. Harry's breath catches in his throat. She hasn't touched him on purpose since he doesn't know when. No one has. He curls fingers over her wrist, holding on. Harry's eyes fall shut, basking in the connection to another human being. He feels tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, so he keeps them closed, even when she begins to speak again, voice softer.

“And it's not going to make you feel any better. It's not going to make this suck any less. But it's the rule. It's how we survive.” She pulls away from him. Gone. Like smoke.

He watches her, standing before his bed, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, putting on a mask. The warmth is gone from her face, he feels it seeping out his fingertips. “You don't do your work, your rations get cut in half. No exceptions.”

Allie's done her duty now, she's warned him. That's what any of this is to her, an obligation to check off her list of responsibilities. It doesn't really matter if he listens; she doesn't actually care. Harry rolls away from her, one of the tears escaping from the corner of his eye.

Jason and Shoe filter past her to begin bagging some of Harry's rations, efficient and quiet. Allie stands over him, and Harry doesn't understand why she's still here.

She hesitates. “I hope the next time I get a report on you it's that you're sweeping up the cafeteria again. Feel better.” Allie takes even measured steps as she leaves the room, and Harry listens to them until they fade too much to hear. He closes his eyes. There's no reason to get out of bed today.

* * *

Harry doesn't realize it's Thanksgiving until he gets a couple of texts from Kelly wondering where he is. Even if he'd known, he wouldn't have gone. Even if he weren't currently a boneless heap on his bed, lacking even the energy to get up and find something to eat, he wouldn't have gone. Thanksgiving this year was never going to be a good day. He also doesn't answer the texts, not because a little part of him doesn't want to, to reach out and meet someone halfway, but because he'd read them and felt the weighted dead sense of obligation clinging to them. She didn't text him because she really wants to see him, but because she feels like it's her job to make sure he's still there, still breathing. She'll have a better time if she can forget about him; they all will.

He falls asleep early, still a few streaks of red and gold light slanting in from his windows. But there's nothing else to do, so when his eyelids start to flutter shut and stay there, he doesn't fight it. Sleep in an escape from all of this. Sleep is there for him when nothing and no one else is. He welcomes it as an old friend.

There's someone in his room, is Harry's first coherent thought when he's catapulted from sleep by the sound of someone stumbling through the dark. He sits up slowly, trying to get his bearings. It's dark outside, no light left, save for what little can be provided by the moon and the stars. His bathroom light blinks on, nearly blinding him. Then he hears the vomiting.

It's got to be Allie. No one else would be in here, certainly no one else would come in here just to be sick. It's the pitiful little coughing sound she makes when she finishes that has him rolling out of bed without thinking, the hardwood too cold under his feet.

“Allie?” He finds her leaning over the toilet bowl. She looks terrible, pale and sweaty, with trembling hands and a pained expression. For just an instant, he's fourteen and it's the middle of the night and Kitty is crying because she ate three ice cream sandwiches before bed, clutching his hand and begging him to make her feel better.

“I'm fine, go away.” It's a terrible lie, and Allie's usually not too bad of a liar (not as good as he is, but not too bad), and it's mostly this- her weak, sad denial, and the way she immediately retches over the toilet bowl, that has him crossing the last few feet to her side. He sits down on the floor, wishing he had something a little warmer than his thin sweatpants and t-shirt on the cold tile. Harry hesitates for a long moment before he gathers the courage to touch her. Harry's had more physical contact with Allie than probably anyone else in months, but it's unintentional. They just wake up that way, limbs tangled together, her cheek pressed against his chest. This is deliberate. He combs through her hair with his fingers, letting his hands take the lead, follow the pattern he knows by heart, even though it's been months since he last used it. He finishes the french braid a little slower than he normally would, out of practice, but it's passable.

“Thanks?” Allie manages, the word coming out as a pained gasp.

“Little sister, remember?” Harry says by way of explanation. He used to braid Kitty's hair every morning before school. Their mom had never had the time or the patience to learn how, and their dad was always at work. So it had been Harry.

“Kitty has a dairy intolerance,” Harry says, and he's rubbing circles on Allie's back, while her arms shake. He doesn't let himself think about it. He just acts, like he had when Kitty cried in the middle of the night and he was the only one who would get up. Him, because their dad was rarely home and their mom slept too heavy from all the wine. “She used to sneak ice cream and get ridiculously sick in the middle of the night. It made our mom so mad. Kitty couldn't help herself. No impulse control. I think it might be a Bingham trait.”

Allie is radiating heat, too hot, fever hot, and she's trembling, jaw clamped down like she can rid herself of this just through sheer power of will. Harry doesn't think this is normal.

“Maybe I should call someone?”

“No.” Allie's voice is sharp, but it shakes a little at the end, takes a little of the authority out of it. Harry's seriously considering ignoring her request when she says, “Can you just talk to me? Distract me?”

“Talk about what?” He's hardly gotten out of bed in days, hasn't left the house in even longer. He doesn't exactly have a wealth of interesting experiences to draw from.

“What would you be doing for Thanksgiving if we weren't all stuck here?”

The question is a sharp blow beneath his ribs. It shouldn't take him by surprise, it's a completely reasonable question to ask and yet... Thanksgiving is his dad's; his dad, who Harry thought had the whole goddamn world figured out, whose consistence absence somehow never turned as bitter as his mother's drinking and harsh words. These days, Harry can't think of his father without thinking about his mother clutching a glass of red wine the exact same color as the bloodstains on the Persian carpet in his office. _Don't be an idiot, Harry_.

“I don't think we were really going to do Thanksgiving this year.” He thinks it comes out so oddly normal, like he isn't concentrating on just breathing evenly.

“What?” It's a single word from Allie, uncomprehending.

“Yeah, well... It was kind of always my dad's holiday.” He doesn't have to say anything else. Harry can see the way the information settles over her, even with the fever in her eyes. Everyone knows what happened with Harry's dad, even if no one ever says it.

“Harry...”

“I don't want to talk about that.” There is absolutely nothing he wants to talk about less. She doesn't say anything back, and maybe that's because there's nothing left to say, or maybe it's because her eyes have gone all distant, sweat beading at her forehead, hands shaking. She looks worse. She looks like she needs help.

“Allie, I really think-”

“It'll be fine. I'll be fine.” Allie barely gets the words out, knuckles going white when she clamps her hands down on her knees to steady herself. Harry sees it, just an instant before it happens, the way she disappears from her own eyes. He moves fast enough to keep her head from cracking against the tile, but only just.

He has no idea what he's supposed to do next, Allie limp in his arms. Panic wells up the back of his throat. She's breathing, but her skin is too warm, clammy, her eyelids fluttering. He can't do this. He can't help her. Three deep breaths, and he goes looking for his phone. He's too sober for this.

When he finally finds it, buried underneath one of his pillows, barely clinging to a charge, he sees a series of group texts. People are sick, scarily sick. It's not just Allie. Something wrong with the food at Thanksgiving. There's one text from Kelly, telling everyone who needs it to come to the clinic.

Harry knows he's not in the best shape of his life. Spending weeks mostly lying in bed will do that to you, but even so, lifting an entirely unconscious person wouldn't be easy. He's lucky Allie is tiny, small enough that he can gather her up in his arms and make his way through the dark house, down the stairs to the front door. It's slow, but possible.

Harry hesitates on the front step. The world outside feels big, even in the dark, a giant yawning space, waiting to gobble him up. He wishes he'd taken the time to swallow down a couple of pills before bringing Allie all the way down the stairs. He could go back. It would only take a minute, but... Even unconscious, there are lines on Allie's face- pain and discomfort and little beads of sweat around her temple. He can deal with it, it's just for a little while, and then he can come home and take whatever he wants to take and sleep and sleep and sleep. A breath in, a breath out. And for the first time in days, Harry leaves his house.

The clinic is too bright, sets a dull throbbing off behind his eyes. It's chaos, too many people sick, not enough people who have any idea what they're doing. Crying. Vomiting. Yelling. Harry finds himself with his head in his hands, trying to hold all his loose pieces together. Kelly asks him questions, but he can't remember what he tells her. He doesn't know anything useful anyway. Allie's sick, that's all he knows.

When Will shows up, breathless and angry, Harry goes. He isn't needed here, isn't _wanted_ here, and he'll only get in the way. If he leaves now, he can get home before the sun is fully up, take the last of Campbell's pills, and sleep until he can't sleep anymore. That sounds like the best option for everyone involved.

He makes it as far as the hallway before his plan falls apart. If he goes home and falls asleep, will he wake up here? Or worse, will Allie end up back at his house, where Kelly can't look after her? He doesn't know. He wishes he didn't care. Oblivion sounds so much appealing than the worry gnawing at his ribs.

He sinks to the floor in the hallway, tilts his head back against the the wall, and tries to remind himself of the breathing techniques Dr. Tsapenko had used to make him do. Stay awake. Stay calm. Stay out of the way. Harry repeats the mantra to himself, fighting the itchy urge between his shoulder blades to go raid the cabinets in the back and see if there's anything around to take to make his mind blank out. What he wouldn't give to just stop thinking for a little bit. _Stay awake. Stay calm. Stay out of the way_.

“Hey.” Harry doesn't realize he's been grinding his teeth, an almost gentle ache in his jaw, until Allie's voice interrupts him. She's standing just outside the door to the clinic, dark circles under eyes, looking worn. But she's standing. Something inside Harry's chest gives a little.

“Hey.” The clock on the wall across from him says it's nearly 11 in the morning. He has no idea where the hours went.

Allie shifts her weight, tugs at the sleeve of her sweatshirt, and watches him for a long moment. He wonders, absently, what it is that she sees.

“Can I come home with you?”

It's not what he's expecting. Allie wakes up in his bed every morning, but only because she doesn't have a choice. They both know if she did, she wouldn't be there. She'll end up there anyway, Harry reasons. She's just cutting out the play acting, pretending to go home, when they both know she'll just end up back in his bed. But it feels heavier than that. It feels like when she grasped his wrist the other day- intentional.

“Yeah.” He looks at her standing there, chapped lips, hair starting to fall out of her braid, the hollows of her cheeks looking a little too sharp. She's not like him, Harry reminds himself. Someone will miss her. “But you should probably tell someone.”

“Probably.” Harry isn't sure that's an agreement. But that's up to her, he supposes. He isn't Allie's keeper. He isn't even her friend. His head hurts, like he's the one who was sick all night, and there's a tremor in his hands. If she wants to upset her friends, he doesn't have the energy to try to stop her.

The walk home is almost as surreal as the one he'd made that morning through the dark, Allie heavy in his arms. It's one of those days- crisp air, golden light, picturesque in a way that's almost painful. Like this, you could forget what a tragedy this whole town is.

Harry's house sits, big and quiet and empty, like it usually is once the sun comes up. He doesn't know how many people sleep here anymore, hasn't bothered to keep track, but during the day, it's almost always empty. They'd been so eager to move in, thought it was so cool, and now they can't get out fast enough. They feel it, even if they never say it, that this is a place drowning in bad memories.

He feels the last of his energy slip out of his limbs at the sight of his bed. The headache behind his eyes is strong enough that he's starting to see little dark spots. He pulls down the covers so he can climb in, his bones screaming in relief.

Allie follows more slowly, like she's having second thoughts. She's probably having second thoughts. That might hurt, if he weren't so utterly exhausted. Her quietness feels loud, stretching between them until there's a gulf, a void he expects her to fill with words. Instead, Allie rolls over.

Harry startles when she touches him. First, just a hand on his arm, and then, when he relaxes into it, his nerves all lit up and his heart pounding, settling her cheek onto his chest. He hardly dares to breathe, afraid that she'll change her mind, remember that she doesn't really want anything to do with him.

“I'm sorry about your dad,” Allie whispers after a few breaths. Harry curls arm over her waist, reveling in the closeness of her, in the deliberateness of her touch. This sort of intimacy is so distant to him, it nearly feels foreign.

“I'm sorry about Cassandra.” The words barely make it past his lips, clinging in the back of his throat. He tastes shame in them.

They don't say anything else. When Allie's breath evens out, he leans over the edge of the bed, careful not to wake her, rifles in his nightstand until he finds the pills, tucked discreetly under his old copy of _The Odyssey._ It's a relief, to finally let oblivion take him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, 
> 
> I'm not really sure anyone will still be reading this at this point, but I compulsively have to finish things I start, so I'm back at it again. I've had a hard time getting anything down on paper recently (hence the long break between chapters) but I do intend to finish this, even if it's slow and not being read because I'm stubborn like that. this chapter is a little shorter than some, but it is in the original fic too & harry has less to do in this section of time than allie, so it just fit that way.


	5. Would You Take Back All They Told Ya?

Waking up his bathroom floor is a new low for Harry. Or rather, being woken up by Allie on his bathroom floor is the low, it's worse than waking up alone. Campbell hadn't shown up for their scheduled meeting last night, leaving Harry short on pills. In response, Harry had opened his last bottle of his father's expensive whiskey. It feels like a worse decision in the light of day, with his pounding headache and the tremor in his hands.

Allie isn't pleased. He registers that much, even if he can't quite open his eyes all the way.

“We're in your fucking bathroom.” She's a disembodied voice, somewhere to his right, but Harry can feel the irritation rolling off her in waves. He doesn't have a good response to that. She's right, they're in his bathroom. And it's his fault.

“Hhhmm?”  
“Why couldn't it have been _my bed_, if it was going to be somewhere different? Why the fuck do I always have to end up where _you_ are? Could I just once, not have to get up too early, somewhere that I don't belong, and play out my morning every morning like it's fucking Groundhog's Day or something?!”

“What does Groundhog's Day have to do with anything?” Allie's talking too much for Harry, her words blurring together until they mean nothing. His headache is coalescing into his left eye, sharp and inescapable.

“The _movie_, Harry!” He winces at the loudness of her voice.

“I think it's just because I fall asleep before you do.” He doesn't think it's some sort of secret. It had just seemed obvious to him. Harry spends so much of his time sleeping, of course it's more likely that he'd been asleep by the time Allie, who can't seem to escape the need to plan and worry and talk and plan some more, even makes it to bed. Apparently this hasn't ever occurred to her.

“_What?_”

“I fall asleep earlier than you, I think. Nothing seems to happen until we're both asleep, and since you seem to go to bed after me, I think you're the one who moves.” He makes a halfhearted attempt to sit up, but everything seems to tip too far one direction and he gives it up before he can completely embarrass himself. He might not have thrown up all the alcohol in his system last night.

“And you never thought to share this information!”

“It's just a theory, fuck, can you stop yelling my head hurts enough as it is.” Even when Allie wasn't speaking to him, waking up to her presence was something Harry couldn't help but look forward to, spending a few moments warm and close to someone, anyone, and not feeling so completely alone. Today, he's cold and sore and his mind is all muddled and he's kind of wishing she would just go.

“A _theory!_ You mean, the thing that we could have tested and I might not have to get up so fucking early all the time?!”

“Look,” Harry says, slow, because his tongue feels too big for his mouth, “You're the one who cares about hiding this. I don't give a fuck if people know. I haven't told anybody because you don't want me to. But if I wake up in _your_ bed, I'm not getting up at 5 am to sneak out.”

“Fuck you, Harry,” Allie snaps. She sounds tired. If he could keep his eyes open enough to see her face, he thinks she'd look tired. Distantly, he thinks maybe there's something he should say, but Allie gets up and goes before anything comes to mind.

He's made it off the floor and back to his bed by the time Kelly arrives, but only just. She might have texted to tell him she was coming, but Harry's not really sure where his phone is. He's not even sure when the last time he charged it was. He knows it's Kelly by her footsteps, more hesitant than Allie's, lighter than any of the guard or Campbell. No one else would come here.

She doesn't take mercy on him, drawing up the blinds on his window and spilling vicious light across his bed. Harry rolls away from it, squinting and groaning to himself.

“That's too bright.”

“Sorry, but you need it.” She does genuinely sound sorry, so there's that.

“Says who?” Harry isn't sure how he feels about Kelly right now. He's not sure, because he thought he loved her once, but he can't find that feeling anymore, and she keeps showing up, like she cares, like he means something, and then disappearing again, like maybe he doesn't. It reeks of some lingering sense of obligation. She'd been his girlfriend, and now she's not, but he doesn't have anyone else, and she's not sure if it's okay to just abandon him. He doesn't want her pity. If she's going to care, he wants her to _care_, not just feel like she has to. He'd been right, even if he'd said it all wrong, they don't belong to each other.

“You _skipped_ Thanksgiving.” She says that like she ever expected him to go. He was never, ever going to go. Even if things were... different, if he had people here, in this world after the end, if he wasn't getting swallowed up everyday by that hungry dark chasm in his chest, he wouldn't have gone. The ghost of his father hangs too dark and heavy.

“I'm not thankful.”

“Seven people got poisoned.”

“Yeah, I remember that part.” He does, vividly. Harry remembers the limp weight Allie had been in his arms, her shallow breathing, the terror of having no idea what to do. Kelly's lips press into a momentary frown- she'd forgotten he'd been there. For a moment, he thinks she's going to ask him, what exactly he was doing carrying Allie Pressman into the clinic in the middle of the night, but then her eyes slide away from his and Harry knows she won't.

“I brought you a turkey sandwich.”

“I'm not hungry.”

Kelly sets the sandwich down on his bedside table hard enough that the thump startles him. In one deft move, she rips his comforter away from him and off the end of his bed. “That's because you stay in bed all day.” The air that replaces it is too cold, it makes Harry's head spin a little.

He rolls away from her, curling in on himself, away from the sunlight and the cool air and Kelly and having to talk.

“Get up.” She's an immovable object, towering over him. “I'm worried about you.”

“Leave me alone.”

“I can't do that. Come on, get dressed.” Kelly throws some clothes at him before sweeping out of the room. Harry lies there and wonders how long it will take before she's storming back into the room. He has no interest in getting up, but it sounds a little bit easier than fighting with her. Slowly, he pushes himself into a sitting position.

“It feels good to get out, right?” Kelly is too bright, like the sun that Harry's keeping his face turned away from, hands shoved into his pockets. He hadn't realized it had gotten so cold out.

“No.” He's honest with her. “No, it feels like shit.” Internally, he's cursing Campbell for not showing up last night. This would all be a lot easier to handle with a pill or two in his bloodstream. Instead, he's got a hangover and an itch in his bones.

“It'll feel good after having done it. That's how exercise works.”

“Nah.”

“Oh my God, you wanna bet?” Kelly isn't perfect, Harry knows this, but sometimes she feels too... right. Like all her edges line up a little too nicely, like she really means it whenever she smiles. He doesn't know what to do with that. It feels so distant from what he is, so far from anything he can relate to. He used to like that. He used to want that so much, like her ease and good nature would rub off on him if he kept her close enough. That feeling is gone now. Instead, it just reminds him how out of place all his own pieces are.  
“Why? What would I win? There's nothing in this place that I want.” Except for Campbell to show up with his pills when he says he will, but Harry's not about to tell her that.

“That can't be true.”

Harry knows what he really wants. He wants to go home. He wants to go back. Back before Cassandra died. Back before they were stuck in this terrible non-home. Back before his father shot himself in the head and left his family to clean up this mess. Back before that, even. Back to before his mother looked at him across his father's desk and said “You're just like him.” Back. Back to before this dark hole opened up in his chest and started eating everything good that he touches.

No one can give him that, though, so it's useless to dwell on it. But Kelly is looking at him, expectant, and he can't tell her the truth. He can't tell her about Campbell and his pills or about the darkness in his chest, so he musters a little half smile, one of the ones he never means.

“I... I can think of one thing,” Harry says, lifting an eyebrow at her.

“Oh, God. Harry.” There's laughter in her voice; she knows he doesn't mean it. He bumps his shoulder into hers, and feels the corners of his smile solidify into something real. For a moment, a breath between one second and next, he thinks she's right; it feels good to get out.

Then she shatters it. “I saw Allie on the way here.”

“Hhhmm?” Harry hopes he sounds disinterested. Kelly isn't stupid. She knows Harry brought Allie to the clinic. It won't take much for her to put the pieces together. And Allie doesn't want anyone to know. He's pretty sure that includes his ex-girlfriend.

“Are you sleeping with her?”

“Does it matter?” Deflection is easier than a lie or an explanation.

“I'd feel better if I knew someone else was looking out for you,” Kelly answers, careful. “I'm not asking out of jealousy, just to be clear.” She scuffs her shoe on the pavement. That should sting, Harry thinks, but it doesn't. He doesn't crave Kelly's jealousy like he might once have. “So... are you?”

“No,” Harry says. It's not a lie, really.

Kelly raises her eyebrows. “Really?”

He's not supposed to talk about Allie with people, but he only promised to keep their connection a secret, not everything, and letting Kelly in on part of it, that'll keep her from looking deeper, at the parts Allie wants so desperately to hide. “Not anymore,” he amends, finally. Not since prom. Not since Cassandra. “Before Cassandra died...” he trails off.

Understanding settles over Kelly's face. “But she was still here. Today, she was here.”

Harry shrugs. “It's complicated.”

Much to his relief, Kelly leaves it be, falling into step next to him and not saying anything else. Even if he could tell her everything about him and Allie, he wouldn't know what to say. He's never known anyone like Allie before. So Harry just hunches his shoulders against the cold and walks, he doesn't have words for this anyway.

* * *

Campbell brings Harry something different this time, small white capsules that Harry hasn't seen before. They feel extra light in his hands, almost like they don't exist.

“What is it?” he asks, even as he's pocketing the bag. It's not like he gets choices. He takes what Campbell gives and hopes he won't stop. Harry doesn't have a fallback plan for if he falls out of favor with New Ham's resident psychopath.

Campbell shrugs. “It'll make you feel good. That's what you want, right?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. It's close enough.

“Take it easy this time around, man.” Campbell claps a hand on his shoulder. “That's the good stuff.”

Whatever is in the capsule, it takes him up. Up. Up. He rides the high into a cleaning spree, suddenly unable to bear the mess in his bedroom, scrubbing the tiles of his bathroom shower until blisters begin to form on his hands.

He crashes into bed late, his whole body pleasantly achy, his muscles feeling stretched out and warm in a way that he hasn't felt in a long time. Harry's mind is still beautifully, wonderfully, far away from the rest of him. He wakes up at three in the morning, Allie's limbs all tangled with his.

He's too hot, his mouth too dry, sweat beading at his temples and the back of his neck. Harry clambers out of bed, his skin sliding against Allie's as he goes. She rolls away from him, murmuring in her sleep. Harry's halfway to the bathroom before he can even register worrying about waking her up. He sticks his head under the tap in the bathroom, drinking until he's full, and then letting the water drench his hair, cooling the fire in his skin.

When he no longer feels like he's burning all the way down to his veins, Harry goes back to his room and fishes the capsules out of his bedside drawer. He pops two pills, then sits down on the bed and looks to Allie's sleeping face while he waits for them to kick in. She doesn't look peaceful. Her brow is furrowed, lips pressed down, hands balled into fists. He can't remember the last time he thought she looked happy. For a moment, he's not sure he's ever seen her happy, but then a shadow of a memory surfaces, of her eyes lit up with boundless energy as she'd taunted him across the air hockey table. And before that, the way she'd laughed during fugitive, reckless, a little wild. He doesn't see any of that now.

Harry goes back to cleaning when the pills kick in, something to do with his hands, something to keep him moving. He doesn't realize how much time has passed, how much he's actually done, until Allie's morning alarm goes off. She only moves to turn the ringing off.

“What are you doing?” Allie mumbles.

“Cleaning,” Harry shoots her a smile, one that almost feels like it fits right on his face, only out of place at the edges. He's out of practice.

“At five in the morning?”

“Yep.” He pops the p at the end of the word a little, giddy because he hasn't felt this high in weeks, even if it does have a tenuous edge to it, like he could topple off the cliff and go plummeting back down at any moment. It just adds a sizzling streak of adrenaline to the whole thing.

She sits up, groggy, her hair all over the place. Allie looks to the window, eyelids still heavy with sleep, and pushes some hair out of her face. “Let's go for a walk.”

Harry blinks at her. The idea strikes him as absurd, but in a kind of distant, highly amusing way. Allie doesn't ever want anyone to know about them, so this suggestion takes him completely off guard. “I'm sorry, what was that? You're offering to be seen in public with me, Pressman?”

Allie rolls her eyes at him. “Well, I was thinking about checking out this lake Grizz found, it's not far from here, so we'd be in the _woods_, which isn't exactly in public, but sure. I've been meaning to check it out for a couple of days, see if we could use it for anything.”

“Ah, that explains it,” Harry says, but he doesn't feel the sting of her words. Somehow, it doesn't feel like a rejection. “Let's go then.”

Allie does all the planning. They need flashlights, because it'll still be dark for at least two hours. Harry stuffs granola bars in the pockets of his winter coat, and Allie steals a blanket from a hall closet to wrap around her shoulders in lieu of a coat. She keeps clothes in his room, but the winter has snuck up on them.

The walk would be easier in full daylight. It takes them extra time to pick their way through the underbrush, flashlights trained firmly on the ground.

“You sure you know where we're going?” Harry questions, about fifteen minutes in. It's cold enough, he's not sure he's ever going to be able to feel his nose again.

“More or less.”

He snorts. “I feel very reassured.”

Allie doesn't answer him, which Harry takes to mean that she doesn't think he deserves a response. He's not convinced she hasn't missed what she's looking for. Surely if there were a lake this close to home, they'd all already know about it, have spent their summers swimming and drinking and laying out in the sun, but then the trees open up and there it is- a smooth expanse of water, so large he can't see the other side.

They both stop walking. Harry's breath stills in his chest. It's just... Everything about New Ham is the same, day in and day out. This... Harry's pretty sure this doesn't even exist in their world, and it feels like a door being opened, possibility suddenly feels attainable again.

After a few moments, Harry spies a rock with a better vantage point. They climb up it, stumbling a little in the dark, and sit with their feet dangling over the edge, watching the sunrise reflected in the lake. The cold isn't quite as sharp as it was when they left the house. Harry feels as if they are the only two people left on Earth.

The edge has worn off his high, and that dark place in his chest is starting to wake up, slow, creeping outward, hungry. Harry folds his shoulders forward a little, like maybe he can contain it inside his body and no one else will ever see.

“Sometimes, I go days without thinking about what happened to Cassandra, and then I hate myself for it. It's not like I forget... I just... don't think about it. Like it's just become another piece of history, a fact of life, a part of the background of living in this place. I hate that.” Allie has her eyes determinedly fixed on the horizon, so Harry follows her lead, doesn't look at her because she's looking away. The sky is lit up, orange, and red, and a little gold. Harry finds himself thinking that Allie isn't like him, not so jagged, but she's not like Kelly either- she's got shards that don't entirely line up. “Is it like that with your dad?”

“Kind of,” he says, finally. He has to think about it. The further they get away from the world they used to live in, the more Harry thinks he didn't really ever know his father at all. “My dad... He was that guy that everyone loved and wanted to be around and no one really liked. Powerful, charming, everything they tell you a man's supposed to be. I worshipped him. Even after... You know, my family was never anything like yours. Do you remember what you told me about your mom? How she'd cook dinner for you every night? I can't remember my mom ever cooking anything. I thought about it after you said that, but I couldn't think of a single time. We didn't eat together, not even when I was little. When I was a kid, my nanny cooked for me. The past few years, we just all went our separate ways, ordered what we wanted. My mom was always working. My dad was always working.  
“I remember, back when I was really young, he would grill out sometimes on the weekends, but then Mom caught him having an affair with a coworker and it was like... They didn't want to get divorced, because it looked bad. They didn't want Kitty to know about it. But we were never really a family anymore, not after that. No family dinners for the Bingham's. No movie nights, no long talks about feelings, no family weekend trips. Our parents bought us things. That's what they did instead of being there, or spending time with us. They bought us things, anything we wanted. And now no one owns anything and... what do I have left? What does that mean now?” The memory of his father is tinged with shame and bitterness and anger. It feels unbelievably unfair that Harry will never get a chance to figure out exactly who his father was, who that might make Harry into.

“Things aren't love, Harry. Just because you don't get to have those things anymore doesn't mean anything.”

“Yeah,” Harry says. She's right. Things aren't love, but Harry doesn't have love, he just has stuff. Or he used to. Now he doesn't have either. “That's an easier concept to say you understand than it is to buy into.”

“When did you get all deep?” Allie asks, there's a levity to her tone that doesn't sound genuine, but Harry's just relieved she's not asking for more little pieces of him.

“We should go,” he replies, instead of answering her. Maybe high and deep are the same thing. Something like that, though he can feel himself descending. He hadn't meant to share so much. “Someone will be wondering where you are.” Allie's the kind of person that people miss. Harry stands up, doesn't look at her. He gets moments of Allie, little breaths, but they'll come looking for her if he tries to grasp any more than that.

“Right.” She follows him up slowly, that little furrow between her brows reappearing.

Harry waits while she dawdles, taking her time to descend from their rock. At the bottom, she steps up onto a fallen log, arms outstretched, the blanket streaming out behind her. She makes it all the way to the end, then swivels to face him. As she does so, her foot slips, sending her stumbling.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Allie gasps, hopping on one foot, her face pale and pained. Harry reaches for her out of instinct. Her lower lip is trembling slightly.

“Come on, sit down.” He grasps her elbow and helps her into a sitting position on the log, her ankle stuck out awkwardly in front of her. “That's what you get for showing off,” Harry tells her, hoping it masks the way his heart is pounding too hard in his chest.

Allie curses quietly, almost too low for him to hear. There are tears in her eyes and a waver in her voice, but she sets her jaw and refuses to let them fall. He feels an odd flash of fondness for her. Allie sometimes seems to run on sheer force of will.

“Let me look.” Harry stoops over next to her, lifting her heel into his hand, as he rolls her pant leg up slightly. It doesn't look like anything. Harry presses his fingers experimentally into her ankle, feeling for broken bones. It doesn't really feel like anything either. As if he would know if it did.

“Seems mostly okay.” He hopes it is, anyway.

“Harry.” He looks at her, his fingers still wrapped gently around her ankle. He's not ready for it when she leans forward and kisses him.

Harry feels himself go very still; his brain short circuits. Her kiss is brief, chaste, just a small thing, and Harry doesn't move at all when she pulls back. He just looks at her, wondering if he missed something along the way here. Allie doesn't even want to be his friend, much less whatever this is.

She kisses him again. This time, he kisses her back. His mind is still a blank of complete confusion, but his body leans into it. _Oh,_ some piece of him whispers, _you've missed this_. He'd forgotten the details of what it was like to kiss someone. He only leans back when he needs to breathe, still close to her, nerves lit up by the warmth of her skin and the way her hair brushes against his cheek.

“Why?” he asks. It's the only coherent thought he has. Why? Why would she ever do that? He never ever thought she'd kiss him again, not after Cassandra.

“I just need to blow off some steam.” That's probably true; Harry's seen how tense she's been. But that's not what he meant, that's not what he's asking her.

“No. Why me? After everything...”

Allie answers after a moment, her eyes almost as confused as he feels. “Because I don't know how to trust anyone else with this.” The words strike him more sharply than a physical blow to the chest. He can hardly breathe around them.

“You think you can trust me?” Harry's heart turns over. He's done nothing to earn that. He doesn't understand how she ever could. He's terrified he'll just prove again that she shouldn't.

“With this.”

_With sex_, he surmises. She's had sex with him before, and they might be complicated, they might be nothing, Harry honestly doesn't know, but he's a known factor and that makes him safe- or relatively so. That's an answer he can understand, one that he can accept.

“Okay.” He leans in to kiss her this time.

If you'd told him a year ago that he'd be having a sexual encounter in which he values the intimacy more than the pleasure, he would have laughed in your face. Sex, in Harry's opinion, has always been pretty simple- it feels good. Sure, he'd felt an emotional connection to Kelly, had even thought he'd loved her (maybe he did, maybe he didn't; he isn't certain), but having sex with her had still been simple, all about chasing completion and pleasure.

This is different. Harry's spent the last five months in near isolation, numbing himself when he can, sleeping when he can't. He's only had moments of human contact, a few words here and there, a few moments with Allie's body heat close to his in the mornings when he can barely think straight. There'd been that morning, the day after Thanksgiving, where she'd curled deliberately into his chest and set all his nerve endings on fire. This is that, times a thousand.

Harry knew he missed human contact, the comfort of being touched, but he hadn't realized how much. And Allie is touching him, because she _wants_ to, not because some twist of fate threw them together against their will. He's hyperaware of all the places their skin touches, from his mouth against her neck to her thighs cradling his hips.

He just feels... close. He's a little dizzy with it, with the closeness of Allie. He never understood the true meaning of the word touch starved before. He'd do anything if she'd just keep touching him, if she promised she wouldn't stop.

Allie doesn't linger after, and Harry lets her go reluctantly. He already misses the heat of her skin, seconds after she rolls away from him. Allie doesn't even look at him as she reaches for her bra, so Harry turns away from her too, tries to steady the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat as he stands up to get dressed.

“Just to be clear, this whole thing, it's just sex.”

He's glad his back is to her. It's not like he didn't know that going into it. When he'd asked her why she'd picked him, he'd understood her response. He's not a risk. Harry knows that for Allie, this wasn't about him, he _knows_ that, but there's still some small sliver in his chest whispering _what if? What if everything with Cassandra had never happened? What if Allie never had a reason to hate him?_ It's the very thing he promised himself he wouldn't do. It doesn't change anything. It just makes it all hurt more later. He shoves the thoughts away. If it stings now, it's only because his high is gone.

“Don't worry, I vividly remember the 'we're not friends' speech.” He says it to remind himself as much as her. They aren't friends. That's not what this is.

Allie doesn't say anything, and when Harry turns back around, she's facing away from him, having pulled her shirt back over her head and is running her fingers through her hair. She's shivering a little, hugging her arms close to her body.

Harry shrugs out of his coat before he can think twice about it. “Here.”

It's not until she turns around that he wonders if he shouldn't have. This is something you do for a friend or a girlfriend, right? If this is nothing, he shouldn't reach out. But it's only polite, right?

“What?” She's looking at his coat like she's never seen one before.

“That blanket is pretty much just a dirty sheet now. Take it.”

“What about you?” It's not an acceptance, but there's no fight in her eyes.

“I run warm.”

Allie hesitates one more moment before taking the coat from his hands. It's too big for her. Harry's no giant, but Allie's so small, she's swamped by the fabric. She takes a step, but the pain on her face is obvious as she inhales sharply at the movement.

“You shouldn't walk on that,” Harry says, as he folds up the blanket into a precise square.

“An astute observation. I'll just call an uber, then.” Harry's starting to learn that Allie uses sarcasm to mask vulnerability. It's easier for her if things aren't too deep. Harry feels a tiny smile at the corner of his lips- a real one.

“Always so difficult, Pressman. I was offering to help.” She has the decency to look a little bit sheepish.

The walk home takes even longer than the one out to the lake, mostly because Harry ends up giving Allie a piggyback ride. Her ankle is bad enough that there's no way she'd manage walking on it with the uneven ground in the woods. Harry doesn't really mind, it brings her close again. Plus, without his coat, her body heat is welcome. Still, Harry's spent most of the past few weeks in bed, and his stamina and strength probably isn't what it once was.

“Remind me to start working out again,” Harry mutters as they finally near the edge of the woods. Allie begins to laugh, first a little giggle, and then something bright and full blown. Harry isn't really sure what's so funny about that, but her laugh makes warmth well up his chest and into his throat. Harry smiles. He'd thought maybe he forgot how to do that for real.

“What, are you going to join one of New Ham's many team sports?” Allie teases, and he can so clearly imagine the tilt of her lips as she says this.

“I never really was a big team sports kind of guy.”

“No, you just buddied up with all of them, instead.” Harry likes books and theatre and things that teach him how to keep his mask on. But he's known most of the jock guys his whole life, and there were benefits to being close to a group that carries a sort of easy, inherent power. He'd been a good addition for them, charming where so many of them fell short. It was a mutually beneficial scenario. Until it hadn't been. Until Harry stopped being so charming and fun and popular.

“They weren't really my friends.” He hasn't seen any of them for weeks, unless you count whichever guard members are on duty when it's time to cut his rations. If Harry isn't providing a place to party and good time, he isn't anything to them. He always kind of knew it, but it still stings a little to think about.

Allie goes quiet when he says this, and Harry curses himself internally. He hadn't meant to bring her down, it had just seemed like the obvious answer. They aren't his friends, and they never really were. It just took this horrible upside down place for them to show their true colors. In the real world, Harry has money and fast cars and he knows how to smile in a way that makes people feel special. Here, he's just... Well, he's something else.

Harry's intensely relieved when Allie's house comes into view. She's been silent the past few minutes, and he can't even see her face to gauge her mood or where her head is at.

“I think this is your stop,” Harry tells her, when he reaches the bottom of her porch stairs. They've only just arrived, and Harry has his hands hooked under Allie's thighs, her arms twined around her neck, when the door opens. Will steps onto the porch. He doesn't look happy.

“I think I sprained my ankle,” Allie says very fast, like she has to create a barrier between them before either Harry or Will can say anything she doesn't want. Harry isn't sure what Will could say to him that Allie would be trying to stop, but there's a lot he could say to Will. Allie doesn't want Will to know she wakes up in Harry's bed every morning. He's also quite sure she doesn't want Will to know how she just spent her morning.

“Right.” Will's looking at them in a calculating way that makes Harry think that Allie's going to have to be a better liar to Will than she is to him to get out of this one. Still, it can't hurt to put some distance between them, so he lowers her gently to the ground and steps away from her. Now that he can see her, standing there in his coat, her hair all tangles, and her cheeks flushed from the cold, he thinks there's no way Will doesn't see this for what it is.

“Help me inside?” Allie directs the question at Will, not even looking at Harry. That's better, that's the right way to play this, distract and deflect, but Harry can't stop the sinking kernel of disappointment in his chest. Some part of him wanted this to blow up, to not have to hide anymore just because Allie's ashamed of him.

Will moves to her side, sliding his arm under hers, eyes so focused on Allie, Harry feels like he's become invisible. A ghost. “What happened?”

“Nothing, I was being stupid, slipped.” They're murmuring low to each other, and Harry backs away silently, feeling like the intruder that he really is. This is Allie's real life, and he exists somewhere else entirely, on the outside or the edges. That's the only reason he even has any piece of her at all.

Allie looks back over her shoulder at him, something hesitant about her expression. “Thanks for the ride.” Her cheeks go pink immediately after she's said it, and Harry nearly laughs. For one brief moment, Will's the intruder instead of Harry.

“Anytime,” Harry responds, smirking. He means it, even if she'll take it as a joke. Then the moment's gone and he's turned his back and is walking away before he has to watch Allie slip back into the world and a role where as far as everyone is concerned, Harry Bingham doesn't even exist.

* * *

The rest of the weekend, Allie is slower to leave in the mornings. He doesn't ask her about it, but she makes a point to blame it on the cold, mumbling reasonings that have to do with the frost and her ankle, turning her alarm off and snuggling up against his chest. Harry's hardly going to complain. He'll take what he can get. If she wants to stay here all day, he's not going to stop her.

She never stays, though- not that he thought she really would. But on Sunday, she climbs into his lap and kisses him and Harry doesn't ask questions, he just kisses her back. He doesn't know how to explain it, but something about her, the way she always seems to barrel forward, straight into what she wants, unapologetic but not unafraid, it's equal parts admirable and unfathomable to him. They could not be more different.

Harry doesn't get much time to ponder it, because his mind kind of slides out of focus when Allie kisses him, lights him up inside. She's not starlight or sunlight or candlelight, she's a forest fire. When she leans into him, skin fever hot and her nails biting into his shoulders, he wonders if her inferno could burn the darkness right out from behind his ribs. Harry thinks he could be reduced to ashes, but he'd still let her try.

She tells him about the election in sleepy murmurs, the day before she tells everyone else. Harry thinks he gets it. Allie walks around with the weight of the world on her shoulders and she doesn't even have the reassurance that most of them even wanted her to carry it, ever thought she was worthy. They'd tasked Cassandra with their lives, and Allie's been living with that burden instead. She'd be happier without it, Harry thinks, but if they choose her, choose _her_, she'll keep carrying it for them.

“What if you don't win?” Harry asks, because he knows why she's told him, and it's not for pretty reassurances.

“Would that be the worst thing?” Allie's voice is very soft, and Harry's fingers are tangled in her hair. He mulls it over before he answers, wishing he could just lie to her, but he finds he can't.

“It would be for everyone else.”

The day the election sign ups are posted, Campbell is late with his delivery to Harry's house. If Harry had been keeping track of the days, he might have noticed a connection, but as it is, all he feels is a slightly panicked annoyance at the back of his throat.

Campbell finally shows up, an hour and half after he promised he would. Harry's sitting at the island in his kitchen, staring into his own reflection on the marble top, trying to find the will to get up and climb the stairs back up to his bed. He feels hollowed out from the inside, jittery and exhausted all at once.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Campbell greets him with a smile, plopping a to-go cup of coffee down in front of Harry. There's a tiny piece of him that's annoyed enough not to show his appreciation for the caffeine, despite nearly swooning at the smell. Harry's been out of coffee for weeks.

“Fuck off, Campbell.” This only makes Campbell smile. They both know Harry doesn't mean it. He wants his pills.

Harry drags the coffee cup toward him, pondering the gesture. “What, so now we're in some universe where you're generous and thoughtful?”

“Mhm.” Campbell's hands fall on Harry' shoulders, and they feel more threatening than friendly. “Drink up, we gotta get you ready for the debate.”

“What are you talking about?” Harry shrugs Campbell's hands off, irritated. The come down from whatever Campbell gave him last time is killer. He feels like half a person.

“I, uh... I signed you up this morning.” Campbell announces, clearly pleased with himself. “You're gonna run for mayor against Allie.”

“Uh, yeah. No, I don't think so.” Even the idea makes Harry feel sick. He's seen the weight of everything bearing down on her, seen the way her mask crumbles into something vulnerable when she thinks no one is looking. He doesn't count. He's never thought being no one could feel like so much of a privilege.

She's only just stopped hating him. He's not going back to that. Even if he had any interest in the position, which he doesn't, it wouldn't be worth going back to that.

“Listen, we don't have a lot of time if we're gonna pull this off, so let's just skip this part. You look like shit, by the way.” There's the undercurrent of a threat in Campbell's voice, but Harry finds himself barreling past the warning. He's so sick of this, of Campbell's smug face and voice and the way he looks at Harry like he's some amusing pet that's misbehaving.

“Did you hear me? I'm not being pulled into this bullshit. If you wanna be in charge so bad, you run.”

“I'd never get elected. You know that.” Campbell's continued amusement is infuriating.

“Okay, well... whatever, man. I got enough going on.”

“Like what?” For one, a soulmate who Campbell wants him to openly politically oppose.

“Look at yourself. Harry, look around you. You like the way things are? 'Cause I don't. You like picking up garbage? Being crammed into a house with a bunch of fucking assholes? You want this to be your life?” He hates that the honest answer is no. No, Harry doesn't like anything about this place. He doesn't like what's expected of him. He doesn't like sharing his house. He doesn't like feeling like a stranger in the one place he should feel safe. He doesn't like participating in a society that doesn't give one single fuck about him, and has proved it. He doesn't like that he agrees with Campbell on that.

“No.”

“Then get your shit together, man. This is our chance. I remember when you used to run this place. Right? This school. The town, man. Nobody could touch you. That guy is still in there.” Harry knows the truth, he's pretty sure Campbell does too- that guy never really existed, but Harry was damn good at making everyone believe he did. He was good at it. He could be good at it again. “Let's get you back where you belong. Just trust me.”

Harry looks Campbell in the face. There's a part of him that wants that, just a little, to be able to put that mask back on. It was a different way of hiding. But it's smaller than the part of him that's picturing the look on Allie's face if he does, the betrayal. And he's smart enough to know that nothing good could ever come of actually trusting Campbell. “I'm not interested.”

“Huh.” Campbell huffs, a quiet amused sound, and then his grin turns predatory. “Okay, Harry. I was trying to be polite. Let me put it this way,” he sets a bag of pills on the counter between them, “I wasn't asking.”

The message that he gets from Allie asking for a public meeting is so formal and so cold that Harry nearly curls up with his comforter pulled up over his head and pretends like nothing outside of his bed exists at all. But he can't do that. Campbell's made sure of that.

He's still reeling from Kelly's fury, from the way she'd snapped at him that Campbell only gives a shit about Campbell.

_I know_, Harry wants to tell her. _I know, I know, I know, but I don't have a choice_. But telling her that means explaining, it means facing the fact that in the end, Campbell had set that bag of pills down on the counter between them and Harry had been too weak to do anything but cave. He wants Allie, her smiles and her warmth and her blazing fire, but he doesn't really have her and he _needs_ this. He needs oblivion. _There was no choice to make_, Harry tells himself, when the guilt threatens to creep up his throat.

He makes it to the coffee shop early, upright only because Campbell's been generous since Harry agreed to be his pawn. He drinks two cups of what passes for coffee in New Ham these days before Allie even shows up.

“You're late,” is the first thing he says to her when she arrives, like this is normal, like they're just a couple of friends meeting for coffee and not two people who wake up every morning together, who are distinctly “not friends,” who've been sleeping together, who are looking at each other across this table finding themselves on opposite sides.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” she says, pulling the debate guidelines out of her pocket. “It's been a little busy.” She plays along, not missing a beat, despite the confused set to her brow. She's looking at him like he's a stranger, and that somehow feels more wrong than sitting in this sham of a coffee shop and talking around what's actually happening here.

“Mmm.”

“These are the rules of the debate.” She lays the paper flat on the table in front of them. “Pretty standard.”

“Yeah, I'm sure.” Harry folds the paper over without looking at it. “It's all fine.” Nothing about this is fine. He's already preparing for where this will lead, when she realizes he's serious, he's doing this. He doesn't want to do this.

“You sure?” _No_.

“Yeah, I'm good.” The lie tastes unconvincing on his lips.

Allie takes the paper back, shoves it into her pocket, and studies him. She still doesn't look angry. She looks... thoughtful. Harry wishes he could just suspend this moment forever, stay here, where he hasn't completely lost her.

“Are you okay?” It's direct and tentative at the same time. Harry's chest warms with the question, even though he knows he doesn't deserve it.

“I'm fine.”

“Because the last time I saw you-”

“I know, I know. I'm... I'm better.” He'd been low this morning, out of pills. That's no longer the issue.

“Sometimes I wonder if there's another version of this world where we're friends.” It's the last thing Harry expects her to say. He can still hear the exact way in which she'd said _'We're not friends. We're not anything.' _to him, all those weeks ago.

“Yeah?” It's intoxicating, the idea of it, of being something Allie's not ashamed of. She's hooked him with it.

“Yeah.” She's smiling like she doesn't even realize it, like she means it. Harry's chest aches for something he knows he's already ruined. “Where we want the same thing for people. Work together. Look out for each other. You know?”

He swallows hard, has to fight to find his voice. “Anything's possible, I guess.”

Allie's smile disappears. “Why are you running Harry?” The question is direct, like her, like she's always been with him.

This lie comes easier, a regurgitation of Campbell's talking points. There's no honesty in it. “We don't agree on some stuff. It seems like the right thing to do.”

“Does it?” There's so much raw vulnerability in Allie's voice, that Harry can't bear to meet her eyes. He feels sure she'll see straight through him if he does. He won't be able to hide any longer. _No_. It feels like the worst thing to do. If he were better, Harry wouldn't be here. But he's not better. So he can't be here any longer.

Harry's shaken and sick to his stomach when he pushes out of his chair and to his feet. He almost walks out right then, but Allie's still sitting there with her open vulnerability and exhaustion in her eyes, and Harry can't help himself. He wants as much of her as he can get before she's gone again.

“Let me know if you work it out.”

“What?”

“About the other world. It seems like a nice place.” He touches her shoulder for a breath before he goes, tries to memorize this exact moment so he can remember later, terrorize himself with his own weakness. Harry knows, as he walks away from her, that despite every lie he's ever told himself, he deserves every bit of that yawning darkness in his chest that threatens to swallow him whole.

He takes half of the pills Campbell had left this morning all in one go. Harry's never wanted to forget as much as he does right now. If he can just turn his brain off, if he can just get the look on Allie's face out of his head... He'd been braced for her anger, but what he'd gotten was worse. She'd looked at him like she hadn't believed him, like she _couldn't_ believe he would really do anything to betray her. Like he hasn't before, when they both know that's not true.

_We're not friends. We're not anything_. That's what she'd said. It's a truth she'd told him, and she'd meant it, Harry knows that. So he'd wrapped himself in it, hammered armor out of it, repeated it to himself over and over, early in the mornings when her cheek was pressed to his chest and her fingers curled into his shirt. He's believed it- he's had to. But the way she'd looked at him across the table... it occurs to him that maybe Allie doesn't.

And it doesn't even matter anymore. Not now. Harry's found a way to go even lower, fashion himself into another disappointment. _You're just like him_. He is. He is. Just a man made up of betrayal and selfish impulses. _You're just like him_. Harry's been afraid of that for a very long time.

Harry's still sitting there in his kitchen when Allie's anger catches up with him. She storms into his house, a little before dinner, and finds him alone in his kitchen, clutching a mug of weak tea and wondering why his brain is still working moderately straight. Allie is furious, a veritable bonfire of anger. Harry can't bring himself to look at her, her anger burns so bright. He's afraid that he if he looks her in the eyes, he'll confess everything, surrender his last shreds of dignity and then there will be nothing left.

“What the hell is going on Harry?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” He's not strong or good enough to say no to Campbell, to save her the pain of his betrayal, but he can do this- he can keep Allie as far away from Campbell and himself as possible. Maybe he can even protect her.

“That's weak, Harry.” A muscle in his jaw jumps. His knee is bouncing. He _is_ weak. Hasn't she figured that out yet?

“You said anyone could sign up to run.” He tries to find that place in himself that's flat, empty, that calm, blank void that he gets to when he's got enough chemicals in his bloodstream. It feels far away. He hasn't had enough to get there.

“You know that's not what this is about.” She's not yelling, but it's a close thing. “Why are you doing this? I want the _truth_.”

“I _have_ to.” Harry hates that this is the truth- his truth. He hates Campbell, but he belongs to him now. He doesn't know how he got here. He didn't think he'd let things go this far.

“You don't! I don't understand why you're acting like-”

“I _have_ to, Allie. I don't have a choice.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He shouldn't have said that. Harry's exceptionally good at fucking things up.

“Look, it's better if you don't know.” _Stay away from Campbell_, _please_. If Allie has any idea that he's involved in all this, she'll go straight after him, Harry has no doubt. He's a lost cause, but Allie isn't.

“Bullshit.”

“It's the truth.”

“You act like I wouldn't know when you're being sincere about something,” Allie snaps. Harry still hasn't looked at her, knows he absolutely cannot look at her, but her voice is so jagged, it sends shivers straight up his spine.

“I can't talk about it,” he says firmly. He's failed at so much, he'll hold onto this if it's the last thing he does. He won't tell her. “I have to do this.”

“Alright then.” There's a hardness in her voice that hadn't been there before. Harry finally chances a glance at her as she's walking away from him towards the door. She pauses with her hand on the door handle, and Harry can see her fury in the tension of her shoulders. “Just so you know, that other world is never going to exist.”

She's all fire and he's reduced to ashes; this isn't how he pictured it, but Harry always knew he'd let her burn him if she wanted. He watches her go, and when she's gone, he takes the other half of Campbell's pills, chases them with some cheap vodka, and hopes it's finally enough to let him forget.

* * *

Harry wakes up slow. First it's the smell of “too clean,” antiseptic clinging to the back of his throat, then it's the low hum and the quiet beep of machinery. The less pleasant sensations follow, nausea that roils up into his chest, rests right at the base of his throat, threatening to rise higher. His head feels stuffed with cotton- blurry, heavy, wrong. Everything here is wrong.

It takes a heroic amount of effort to peel his eyes open. When he manages, he wishes he hadn't. The light is way too bright, setting off a constellation of pain behind his eyes. He doesn't think he could move a limb if he wanted to; he doesn't want to. He wants to sink back into darkness, back into oblivion, back into a state of non-existence.

Before he can do so, Allie's face comes into focus. He hadn't registered her before, his whole head just screaming “too bright, too bright, too bright,” but it's not just light here with him, it's Allie too. She looks drawn, worn, frayed around the edges. The furrow between her brows seems to have become a permanent crease. He wonders absently if there's any way to fix that, or if it's just forever now.

“Hey.” Harry isn't sure how he forces the word up into the world. It seems impossible that he would manage such a feat. Allie turns toward him, eyes red, a quiver in her lower lip. She looks at him like it's not the word, but Harry himself, that is impossible.

“Hey,” she says, soft. The quiver is in her voice too. There's an expression on her face that Harry can't understand. He thinks it might be shame, but that doesn't make any sense. He hurt her, not the other way around.

It's only after he registers her expression that it all starts to seep in. He's in the clinic. He's in the clinic and the last thing he remembers is chasing a handful of pills with straight vodka. There's room for shame here, but not from Allie. Harry thinks of his father's blood on the carpet in his office and he knows what they must all believe of him, of this.

“How are you feeling?”

“Nauseous.” It's the easiest answer. The only one he can face at the moment.

“Yeah... Gordie said that might be a side effect. It's a good sign, though. It means we gave you the right thing.”

“Well, that's a relief.” The response is automatic, dry, and he isn't sure why tears well up in Allie's eyes after he's said it. Her dark circles stand out starkly against her pale skin. She looks almost as wrecked as he feels.

“I'm really sorry.” Allie nearly chokes on the words.

Harry doesn't understand. What could she possibly be apologizing to _him_ for? “For what?”

“For not noticing,” Allie says, like this is obvious. “Whatever was going on between us, I should have noticed.”

_Oh_. Harry closes his eyes, so he doesn't have to look at her, at the fact that he's the reason for her tears again. “I didn't want you to.” He didn't want anyone to know. _He_ didn't even want to know. He still doesn't know how to face it. “It wasn't your problem.” It hadn't even felt like a problem.

“Harry.” He doesn't understand the emotion that is behind that word. Just his name. But then he's thinking about the way people had said his father's name after everything, hushed and worried and little embarrassed. And he knows exactly what this looks like.

“I know what you're thinking,” Harry says, his voice comes out almost as exhausted as he feels. “I wasn't trying kill myself. I just... didn't have a good handle on how much I'd taken already, I guess.” And he hadn't been scared enough of the consequences of that. He hadn't done it on purpose, but he hadn't felt any fear of it either.

“Where'd you get it?” There's fury in Allie's voice, but for once it isn't directed at him. Not that that makes it better. She can't know about Campbell.

He doesn't open his eyes. “Like I said, it's better if you don't know.” That's still the truth.

“This has something to do with the election? Why you're running?”

“I don't want to talk about it.” _Leave it alone_, he wants to say. _It's not important, I'm not important_. _He'll do anything to get what he wants. Don't make him want to hurt you._

“Hey, sorry to interrupt.” Gordie's at the edge of the curtain, looking apologetic. The exhaustion is starting to show at the corners of his eyes. “I've been reading, I have some things I want to check.”

“Right,” Allie stands up. Her knees wobble slightly. “I'll, um, give you guys some privacy.”

She takes his conviction with him when she goes, all the strength in his limbs fleeing all at once. Harry curls in on himself, closes his eyes, wishes, even in the face of everything, that he had something he could take to make himself slip away into nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, finally! I know I'm slow AF. I hope it was worth the wait. 
> 
> Quick note: when I started this fic, the song that that chapters are titled after (The Corner by Dermot Kennedy) hadn't been officially released yet. In the studio version, the lyrics have been slightly altered from the version I was listening to when writing ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qf56tI2TSsc ), so any difference you might notice between the lyrics I've used and what you might hear if you going searching for the song are due to this. I updated one chapter title, but there are a few lyrics I've used (or are planning to use) that I like in the live version better than the studio version. 
> 
> Hope everyone is doing well!

**Author's Note:**

> so.... this happened. I literally had no intention of ever writing this, but I just found my brain here over and over again while I was working out. I think I just felt like... there were pieces Harry's story I wasn't able to explore because I chose to write the original fic entirely from Allie's POV. I do expect this fic to be significantly shorter than the original, it's not a piece that I think will necessarily be designed to stand on its own. but I'm also terrible at being brief, so I guess we'll find out. 
> 
> I hope this is something y'all are actually interested in, when I could be working on something new instead. I just... started writing, and I wasn't sure if I was even going to publish this, but as I was writing I realized I had more to say with this whole thing. so, Mamma Mia, here I go again.
> 
> p.s. if you somehow got here and haven't realized this- this is a companion piece to my fic Someday I'll Need Your Spine to Hide Behind, so this is that fic, but written from Harry's POV. it will include additional scenes not in the first fic (particularly involving Kelly and Campbell) and will also not include scenes from the first fic (like any of Allie's solo stuff with Will, Cassandra, Gordie, etc.) however, if you've arrived at this fic without reading my previous work, you can get the whole story from Allie's POV there.


End file.
